


The Case Of The Stolen Doctor

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Stolen Doctor [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Contemplation of Suicide, Discussion of Rape, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty kidnaps Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case Of The Stolen Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Includes two pieces of art by the awesome Artconserv.

"And so you see, Lestrade, if you'd just been a little more observant, you could have solved this case without my assistance at all," said Holmes, his eyes shining with delight at his own success.

Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face tiredly and looked at Watson. "Take him home, Doctor, before his self-satisfaction causes a regrettable incident."

Holmes laughed, picking up his hat and flipping it onto his head. "By all means, Watson! Take me home – our work here is done, and I wager it's time for a celebratory brandy."

"And my work is just beginning," said Lestrade, sitting down at his desk. "You do know how to generate a great deal of paperwork, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes twitched an eyebrow and looked at Watson with mock-surprise. "You'd think the Yard would be more grateful to have a gang of extremely cunning and violent smugglers safely locked away."

Watson stood up, leaning rather more heavily on his cane than he'd have liked. "Do give it a rest, Holmes, or Lestrade will lose his patience and you'll end up spending a night in the cells. I'm sure there's no brandy down there."

Lestrade barely managed a goodbye as they left his office, already too engrossed in his paperwork.

"Ah, he'll come round once he starts getting the acclaim," said Holmes, still insufferably cheerful.

Watson had to smile at his good mood – the trail of the smugglers had been long and difficult, and once or twice Watson had feared it was going to stump Holmes entirely. Now that they had all the gang, including the ring leader, safely locked up with a wealth of evidence to keep them so, he rather thought Holmes deserved his moment of triumph.

They took a cab back to Baker Street in deference to Watson's leg, which was beginning to ache from the long night they'd had, running around the docks and battling ruffians. Holmes didn't stop talking in the cab, expounding at great length on exactly how he'd solved the case, despite the fact that Watson had been right there beside him every step of the way. He was vibrant, hands sketching out shapes in the air as he spoke, and Watson was more than content to just watch him, interjecting only with the occasional dry remark that Holmes ignored.

Holmes sat rather closer to him than most other gentlemen would, leaning in to punctuate the occasional part of his narrative, but Watson stubbornly refused to think too much about that. Instead, he just let himself enjoy it, watching the pleasure glow in Holmes's eyes as he kept his gaze on Watson and ignoring the implications.

"Of course," said Holmes, settling back slightly, "Rogers wasn't the mastermind behind this one, for all that the others all referred to him as the boss. It was far too subtle for someone of his calibre. I suspect we've been a thorn in the side of Professor Moriarty again tonight, Watson."

Well, that went a long way towards explaining Holmes's mood. "You think so?" asked Watson. "There was no mention of him, or of anyone higher up in the gang than Rogers."

"I'm certain of it," said Holmes. "There were certain tell-tale signs of his involvement – this was a more elaborate set-up than Rogers would have arranged, had he been the sole instigator, and there were links to other affairs, ones that Moriarty has also had a hand in. This was his scheme and we have destroyed it." He smiled widely. "Another step closer to shutting his operations down for good."

"You seem very confident that you'll be able to accomplish that," Watson remarked.

"Of course," exclaimed Holmes. "I accomplish everything that I set out to do, you must know that by now, Watson." He gave Watson a meaningful look, and Watson looked away uncomfortably. He should have known that Holmes would push at the boundaries if Watson didn't enforce them.

"It's just a matter of time," added Holmes in a softer voice.

The situation existed largely unacknowledged between them; the way Watson would find his gaze resting on Holmes more often than it was anywhere else; the way Holmes would stand too close to Watson in every circumstance that would allow it, reaching out to touch him on the flimsiest of excuses; that certain point of a long evening together when their eyes would catch and an expectant silence would fall, just waiting for one of them to say the words that would turn a nebulous feeling between them into a physical reality.

Watson was determined that he would never say them. Allowing himself to relish Holmes's warmth against him at moments such as this, or watching the beauty of his eyes when they were lit up with enthusiasm for the chase was one thing. Crossing the line that would make them both criminals was quite another. Holmes might not care about his reputation, but Watson had built his on being respectable, and any hint of this would ruin both of them in ways he could not allow to happen.

Moreover, it sometimes felt like he'd given too much of himself over to Holmes without a word of protest. How could he surrender this as well? Their living arrangements were as amicable as they ever could be, living with someone like Holmes, who thought it perfectly acceptable to spend three days motionless on the sofa and then get up at 3 am on the fourth day to cause an explosion. Adding in something new, something so certain to cause a change in the delicate balance of their relationship was a risk all on its own, without taking in to account that it was both against the common morality and the Queen's laws.

He looked away from Holmes's knowing look and Holmes let out an amused breath. His attitude was such that Watson knew he thought that if he just waited long enough, he would be able to whittle Watson's walls down. Watson swore fervently to himself that would never happen.

"And besides, Moriarty is clever," Holmes continued as if there had been no gap in the conversation, "but I am much cleverer."

Watson snorted. "And more arrogant," he added.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Well, there's no point in false modesty."

 

****

 

Watson settled into his chair as soon as they got back to Baker Street, trying to hide his relief at finally taking the weight off his leg. He didn't think he was that successful – Holmes had always been able to read every thought from his face, after all – but he attempted it anyway. Long chases always left him stiff and aching, and it was his constant fear that one day Holmes would decide that he was too frail to be taken along and leave him behind. Watson wouldn't be able to bear that.

Holmes poured them both a large brandy, handed one to Watson and then settled into his own chair.

"A most satisfactory conclusion," he remarked and Watson raised his glass to that. "Perhaps we should take lunch somewhere tomorrow in celebration," continued Holmes.

"I already have a prior engagement," Watson reminded him for the hundredth time since the case had started. Holmes had a miraculous memory for facts about obscure crimes or the precise kind of ash left by a Frenchman's cigarette, but absolutely no ability to hold on to any of the details of Watson's life that didn't include him. "I'm lunching with Frobisher and Morris and then we're going to a medical lecture."

Holmes looked peeved. "You could cancel," he suggested. "Perhaps we could take a morning train out to the countryside and take a walk."

"I'm not cancelling," said Watson. A day in the country with Holmes would usually be something he'd jump at the chance of, but somehow Holmes only made such suggestions when Watson was already busy with something that didn't involve him, and he wasn't going to be manipulated that easily. "I've had to cancel on Frobisher too many times already, and the lecture looks to be very interesting. Perhaps we could go to the country the day after."

"I'll be busy then," said Holmes sulkily and Watson gave up, changing the conversation back towards the case and Holmes's deductions until Holmes had quite forgotten his pique and was holding forth about the differences between a dock-worker's bootprint and a smuggler's.

They sat up for an hour or so, Holmes talking volubly about anything and everything. Watson just sat back in his chair and drank his brandy, feeling the excitement slowly seeping out of him and the weariness taking hold.

It was very late, or very early if you looked at it another way, before Holmes finally calmed, cradling his glass and staring blindly into the fireplace. Watson watched him, struggling to keep his eyes open. Falling asleep in the chair would do his leg no favours at all, but the walk upstairs to his room suddenly seemed very far.

"I believe I shall retire," Holmes announced after a few minutes. He set his glass aside and sprang up with a grace that Watson envied.

"Indeed," said Watson, shifting his legs in preparation to rise. Holmes stepped forward and held out his hands in assistance. Watson took them with reluctance, hating that it was necessary, and Holmes's firm grip was enough to get him upright and steady on his feet. He didn't let go of Watson's hands afterwards though, standing toe-to-toe with him and regarding him with an intense look. Watson froze.

"We could retire together," suggested Holmes in a low voice.

 

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v95/flawedamythyst/LJ/?action=view&current=WeCouldRetireTogether.jpg)   


 

It was the first time either of them had actually made such a suggestion, although Watson had been well aware of the increase in non-verbal invitations in Holmes's looks and gestures over the last few weeks, as he had sought to intensify this thing between them. Watson felt heat rise to his skin at hearing recognition of it out loud and had to take a deep breath, tamping down firmly on temptation. He reminded himself of all the reasons he had for saying no until he felt sure he would be able to reply confidently. Allowing even a hint of weakness to creep in to his voice would only cause Holmes to press at it.

"I am perfectly capable of climbing the stairs," he replied, as if Holmes was only concerned for his leg. A thwarted look crossed Holmes's face and he stepped back, letting go of Watson's hands.

"Then I'll wish you good night," he said tersely and disappeared into his room, shutting the door loudly behind him. Watson stood for a few moments just looking at it, imagining what might happen if he opened it and stepped through, then started the long climb up to his own lonely room.

 

****

 

Lunch with Frobisher and Morris was very convivial, although Watson found himself missing Holmes when both gentlemen missed a couple of his more pawky witticisms, or when he wished to make reference to something they had experienced together. It was only when he went somewhere social without Holmes that he realised how much of their lives they spent together and how many little jokes they had between just the two of them.

He reminded himself that it was a good thing to keep his social circle larger than just Holmes, if only to remember how to interact with men who didn't have the habit of drifting off halfway through a conversation because their minds were working so much faster than their companion's. Besides, perhaps if they spent more time apart, the temptation to sweep aside his better judgement and take Holmes up on the offer he made last night would fade away.

The lecture was as interesting as Watson had hoped and he was still mulling over certain aspects of it as he said goodbye to Morris and Frobisher and climbed into a cab.

"Baker Street," he instructed the driver, then ducked through the door. He pulled up short when he realised there was someone already inside. "Oh, I'm sorry," he started, then someone shoved him hard from behind and he fell forwards onto the figure, who grabbed him close and held a handkerchief over his face. Watson struggled, lashing out even before he breathed in the distinctive smell of chloroform, but it was too late.

The coach rattled off down the street as he lost consciousness and he heard an amused voice say, "Not as sorry as you will be, Doctor."

 

****

  


****

 

Holmes added the hydrochloric acid to the beaker and then frowned with dissatisfaction when there was no visible change. Nothing was going right today. He pushed aside the beaker and looked back at his notes for a moment, then threw them aside and went to collapse on the sofa. He never seemed to work as well when Watson wasn't in the room with him, scratching away at his writings or grunting unhappily at whatever was in The Times.

He glanced at the clock, calculating when the earliest he could expect Watson's return would be, then scowled at himself for the weakness it betrayed. It seemed that his thoughts always ended up turning to Watson these days, distracting him even when he needed his mind the most. If only Watson would just give in and allow them both the relief of acting on their impulses, ridding them of this intolerable tension between them. Holmes would then be able to rededicate his brain to its proper purpose, rather than constantly finding it wandering down the well-trodden and meandering paths of how to convince Watson to join him in his bed.

Last night had been close. Holmes had seen how close by the look in Watson's eyes, backed up by the unconscious twitch of his fingers in Holmes's hand, and had thought that was finally it. Then Watson had pulled away and made some statement that was as good as saying 'I reject you.' How was Holmes to break through his barriers of society-imposed morality and notions of common decency, especially when he had so little experience in this area? Not for the first time since his feelings towards Watson had taken a turn away from merely friendship, Holmes found himself wishing that he'd taken the time in his youth to explore this area as thoroughly as he had criminology and chemistry. He just hadn't thought that it would ever be of use to him – how wrong he'd been!

There had to be some way to persuade Watson. After all, he wanted it just as much as Holmes did; he gave himself away with a hundred little gestures and tokens every day. Holmes frowned at the wall, letting his mind run over all that he'd ever observed of successful seduction, wondering which elements would help him most with Watson. Gifts, compliments, arranging surprises and taking the object of your affections out for meals and excursions – at the heart of them all was the intention to display that that person was the most important person to you, that you wanted to be with them as much as possible and that their welfare and happiness came first.

Holmes thought back over the years of his and Watson's relationship. In general, Watson had been better at demonstrating that to Holmes rather than the other way round – he was always there when Holmes needed him, after all, always ready to drop everything at his word, or to badger him into taking better care of himself, or to congratulate him on his successes. Perhaps Holmes just needed to display a similar attitude in return, so that Watson didn't have any doubts about how essential he was to Holmes. At the very least, spending time with him and working on making him happy would give Holmes more data with which to form a more comprehensive plan.

He looked at the time again. Watson would have eaten a large lunch with his friends and would no doubt return tired from their late night yesterday and the hectic few days that had come before it. A gesture such as taking him out to dinner or the opera would not be welcome tonight, but a quiet night in, a light dinner and perhaps a bottle of his favourite scotch whisky, enjoyed with a cigar and some conversation, would be exactly how Watson would prefer to end his day.

Holmes had an hour before the earliest Watson was likely to be home and he was still in his dressing gown. He would have to work fast.

He tidied the remnants of his experiment away then put on a jacket that he had seen Watson looking at admiringly several times. He hadn't yet managed to deduce whether it had been at the jacket itself or Holmes's figure inside the jacket, but he thought it was worth the attempt. And, he thought with a smileas he hurried down to speak to Mrs Hudson, if it was the jacket rather than Holmes himself, maybe he could offer it to Watson in exchange for some sexual favours.

He ordered a light supper from Mrs Hudson, then headed out to procure a bottle of whisky before the shops closed. It took him longer than he'd calculated – the shop closest to Baker Street was out of stock of Watson's favourite, and the next one was already closing up when he arrived. It took some creative arguing on his part in order to get the shopkeeper to allow him in to purchase a bottle of his best Talisker.

By the time he arrived back at Baker Street, night was fast approaching and he was worried Watson might be home before him. One glance at the hatstand as he came in the living room door was enough to allay that fear – it was still empty of Watson's hat and coat. There was an unopened telegram lying on the table next to it, and Holmes put the whisky down in order to read it.

_THE DOCTOR IS STAYING A FEW DAYS WITH ME STOP NO NEED TO WORRY OUR FRIENDS AT THE YARD OR TO MAKE FURTHER INQUIRIES STOP SUCH WOULD ONLY CAUSE DISTRESS TO W STOP FURTHER INFORMATION TO BE RELAYED TOMORROW STOP M STOP_

Holmes stared at it for a long moment, his heart seizing within his chest, then he picked up the bottle that he'd gone to so much trouble to find and threw it hard against the wall, shattering the glass with a loud crash.

The noise brought Mrs Hudson running in, recriminations already sharp on her tongue. "Good Lord, Mr Holmes! What have you done now? I just can't have this kind of behaviour..."

Holmes interrupted her, holding up the telegram, "When did this arrive?"

She stopped midstream, looking taken aback at his harsh tone. "Why, only about ten minutes ago."

"And how was it delivered? Did you observe anything unusual, anyone watching you receive it, anything at all?"

"The boy brought it," she said, starting to look pale. "I didn't see anything out-of-place, but then, I'm not a detective, and I wasn't really looking for it. Whatever is going on, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes felt his jaw clench against having to say the words, but he forced them out regardless. "Watson has been kidnapped by Professor Moriarty." _And it's all my fault_ he could have added, but held back. Guilt could wait until Watson was safely home again.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, Lord! Whatever will we do?"

"There is nothing we can do at present," said Holmes grimly. "Until he contacts me again, I cannot risk investigating."

She took a deep breath. "Well, I have every confidence that whatever happens, you'll recover Doctor Watson unharmed. Shall I send your supper up now?"

Holmes waved that away. "I won't be eating," he told her. "Just leave me alone so that I can think."

"Starving yourself won't help him," she said, but Holmes ignored her. She knew his methods as well as Watson did – there was no place for food when he was on a case, and this was the most important case he'd ever had.

"Well," she said with a sigh, "at the very least I should clear that mess up, or you shall end up cutting yourself on the glass." She disappeared, presumably to find a bucket and cloth, and Holmes looked at the whisky-stained wall for a long moment.

The room smelled very strongly of it now, vividly putting Holmes in mind of Watson's contented smile as he sat in his chair with a tumbler beside him. His gaze travelled the room, falling on Watson's desk where his pen was neatly lying next to a fresh pad of paper as if just waiting for him. There was an abandoned copy of The Lancet on the small table by Watson's armchair, his doctor's bag by the door and a scarf that Holmes had bought for him in recompense for destroying his last one draped over the hatstand. He suddenly couldn't stand to spend a moment longer in the room and retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind himself and then sinking down onto his bed. His mind was working at a mile a minute. How had he let this happen, and how was he going to fix it?

 

****

 

The next communication arrived with the morning post, in a plain envelope postmarked from London and printed in neat capitals.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I hope this finds you well and at home. It has come to my attention that both you and Doctor Watson have been working far too hard recently and I would suggest that now offers a perfect chance to take a break from your business. The Doctor is in good health, but I fear the investigation of any more crimes could cause him serious harm. I'm sure he would count it as a great favour if you were to refuse all cases for the foreseeable future._

_I am uncertain how long Doctor Watson's visit will continue here, but I shall be sending someone to discuss it with you later today. 3 o'clock, Trafalgar Square. Do try not to be late._

 

It wasn't signed, but Holmes didn't need it to be – the rest of it was clear enough. He crumpled the paper in his hand, thinking fast. He would have to display at least the pretence of going along with Moriarty's demands – not that he had any intention of taking another case until Watson was safely home, but he also had no intention of just sitting back and letting Moriarty get away with this.

"Mrs Hudson!" he called. "Mrs Hudson!!"

"No need to bellow," she told him crossly when she arrived.

"Mrs Hudson, I shall need your assistance," he said. "It is vitally important that I am thought to be in today. If anyone calls for me, tell them that I am indisposed and unable to see them, but make sure they think I'm here, do you understand? The house is certainly being watched, probably quite closely, so be sure to continue your day as if I were here."

"Of course, Mr Holmes," said Mrs Hudson. "But surely if the house is being watched, they'll see you leave?"

"Not if I leave through the attic window," said Holmes. "I can go across the roofs to the corner easily enough."

"Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed. "Is that really necessary? What if you fall?"

"Better to fall from a roof than capitulate to a man like Moriarty," replied Holmes. "I have it well in hand – you just make sure that no one suspects I'm not here. Watson's life may depend on it."

Mrs Hudson nodded. "You can rely on me," she said stoutly.

"Excellent," said Holmes and retreated to his room to disguise himself.

 

****

  


****

 

Watson woke up with a headache. His first thought was that Holmes had got him drunk again, then the incident in the cab came flooding back to him. He let out an involuntary groan at both the memory and the lingering after-effects from the chloroform, and opened his eyes. He was in a small, windowless room, lying on a bed that was the sole furnishing. He sat up carefully, ignoring the way the room spun as he moved, and wondered what on earth he'd got into now.

He reached to check his watch for how long he'd been unconscious, only to find it missing. He took a quick inventory and found that he was also missing his cane and all the money he'd had on him. He'd been both kidnapped and robbed – Holmes was going to tease him about this mercilessly.

Of course, that rather relied on Watson getting out of this and back to Holmes. He looked around the room again, noting the blank walls and distinct lack of anything that might help him. Once his legs felt stable enough to support him, he got up and checked the door, and was not at all surprised to find it firmly locked. The only other feature of the room, other than the bed, was a tiny ventilation grille high up on the wall, too small for him to even contemplate getting through.

He sat back on the bed, reflecting that no doubt Holmes would be able to see ten different ways out, but he was stumped. There was nothing to do but wait for his captors to make themselves and their purposes known.

Without a watch, it was hard to gauge the passage of time, but he thought it must have been nearly an hour later when the door was unlocked and an impeccably-dressed gentleman stepped through. He was tall enough to stoop as he came through the door and his dark hair was already starting to recede from his high forehead, but it was his eyes that caught Watson's attention. They were bright with a malevolent, suppressed glee, and left no doubt that he was exceedingly pleased to see Watson trapped and within his power.

Watson remained sitting on the bed and tried to look relaxed despite the fear sending ice-cold shards into his stomach.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," said the man congenially, as if they were meeting in a club or at the theatre.

"It doesn't seem that good to me," Watson responded.

The man smiled with amusement. "Allow me to introduce myself," he continued. "My name is Professor Moriarty – I understand that you've heard of me?"

Watson felt his stomach clench at the name. His situation was far worse than he'd expected. "I think I've heard your name once or twice," he allowed. "Never anything that made me particularly anxious to meet you in person, though."

"Whereas I have been interested in meeting you for quite some time, Doctor Watson," said Moriarty. "I have read your stories with great interest."

The idea of such a man reading the words that he'd written made Watson feel a little sick, as if he'd had his innermost thoughts invaded. It was ridiculous – they'd been publicly published, all kinds of people had read them, and of course a man who had come up against Holmes so many times would have taken the time to research him.

"Well, it's always gratifying to meet a fan," he managed. "However, I'm expected back home, so if you could just show me to the door, I'd be very grateful."

Moriarty's smile turned cold. "I'm afraid that won't be possible," he said. "I'm going to have to insist you accept my hospitality for a while."

"I'm afraid I don't accept hospitality from thieves," said Watson sharply. All this politeness was putting his teeth on edge.

Moriarty looked offended. "A thief? You would call me something as common as a thief? I think you'll find there's rather more to me than that."

"And yet," said Watson, "I find myself missing belongings which only you can have taken. That seems to point firmly to your credentials as a petty thief."

Watson took great satisfaction in enunciating the final two words, particularly when Moriarty's jaw clenched with what looked like outrage at them. His pride was clearly very important to him, which meant that Watson could hurt him by insulting it. Excellent.

"I have taken your cane into my temporary custody," Moriarty said. "I'm sure you can appreciate that I could not leave you something so easily adapted into a weapon."

"Of course," said Watson. "And my watch and money? I'm afraid you've got rather the wrong idea of me from my stories if you think I'm able to best a man while armed with a pocket watch."

Moriarty frowned. "Your watch?" His eye took on a rather unpleasant glint. "I apologise – that must have been one of my men. Excuse me." He turned and left the room, and Watson heard the lock click round.

He sat back again and let himself take a long breath. Kidnapped by Moriarty, of all people – Holmes was going to do more than tease him, he was going to be furious. Watson rubbed a hand over his face and hoped that the fury would wait until after he'd effected a rescue. Watson really didn't want to spend any more time in Moriarty's company than he had to.

Moriaty was back in ten minutes, carrying Watson's watch and purse. He handed them back with a flourish, as if he had chased down a pickpocket in the street. "Your belongings," he said. "I must apologise – I am not as fortunate in my colleagues as Mr. Holmes is."

Watson checked the watch and was dismayed to discover that it was already nearly midnight. Holmes must be aware he was missing by now. "You could make it up to me by letting me go," he suggested.

Moriarty shook his head. "Your return home depends on Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid." He pulled out a pen and paper. "In fact, I'll need you to write him a short note. Nothing too fancy, but something he'll know definitely came from you."

Watson eyed the paper with distaste. "And if I refuse?" he asked.

"I wouldn't do that," said Moriarty smoothly. "Things might get unpleasant. Besides, I'd have thought you'd want to reassure your friend that you are still alive."

He had a point. The idea of Holmes being unsure if he was alive or dead made the sick feeling in Watson's stomach spread. He took the paper with a sigh, then stared at it for a moment. What could he say that he wouldn't mind Moriarty reading, and no doubt dissecting?

"No secret codes," warned Moriarty. Watson shook his head – what would he put if he did write in code? He had no more idea where he was than Holmes did. In the end he scribbled a few lines, then handed the paper back.

Moriarty read it with a smirk. "How touching," he said, then folded it and put it into his pocket. "Is there anything I can provide for you? Some dinner, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," said Watson stiffly. The drug had left an unpleasant sick feeling in his stomach that the realisation of his situation had only increased.

Moriarty twitched an eyebrow. "I'll have someone bring you some water, at any rate." He turned to leave.

"What are you going to demand from Holmes as ransom?" Watson asked, unable to let him go without knowing, and Moriarty paused in the doorway in order to glance back.

"Why, everything I can, of course," he said. "Do you really think he won't give it to me?"

 

****

 

Watson spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling and wondering how Holmes was reacting. He couldn't decide if Moriarty was being overly optimistic or not in assuming that Holmes would give in so easily – he couldn't lie to himself about his importance to Holmes, but at the same time, Holmes prided himself on following the logical path of action. Letting Moriarty get away with this kind of blackmail went against everything Holmes believed in.

He couldn't decide if he was more worried that Holmes would hold true to his principles and Moriarty would torture or even kill Watson in retaliation, or that Holmes would sacrifice his principles for Watson's sake and then have to live with the knowledge that he had done so.

He was in a rather dark mood by the next morning, when the door was unlocked and a man whom Watson identified as one of Moriarty's henchmen entered holding a gun.

"Up," he said, gesturing with the gun. Watson stayed where he was, contemplating his options, and the thug growled impatiently. "Move," he commanded. "I can shoot you and still keep you alive for the Professor, you know."

Watson had to acknowledge the truth of that and reluctantly got up. The thug marched him out of the door, where another, larger man was waiting, also armed with a pistol. Watson abandoned his half-conceived plan of overpowering the first man and followed him in silence down the corridor. Outside of his prison, the building they were in appeared to be more opulent than Watson would have guessed. At a casual glance, it looked like the home of a reasonably wealthy household; a thick carpet covered the floor, the wallpaper was detailed with a floral pattern, and a few tasteful landscapes decorated the walls.

He was taken down a flight of stairs and into a dining room, where Moriarty was already seated at the table.

"Good morning, Doctor," he welcomed him with a smile. "So good of you to join me."

"I wasn't given a lot of choice," said Watson.

Moriarty ignored him. "I was hoping you would breakfast with me," he said.

"I'm not in the habit of breaking bread with murderers," said Watson coldly.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "No? How many men has Holmes sent to the gallows, I wonder?"

Watson glared at him. "There's a considerable difference between justice and murder."

"Perhaps," said Moriarty, with a condescending smile as if Watson were a small child he was humouring. Watson gritted his teeth. "At any rate, I suggest you waive your ideological objections – if you don't eat with me, you don't eat at all."

Watson looked at the spread of food on the table, feeling the pangs of hunger in his stomach. He'd declined supper last night after all, and unlike Holmes he was accustomed to regular meals. Moreover, his army training had taught him that you should accept food however you can get it when captured, in order to keep your strength up. One missed meal was enough; there would be no possible chance for escape if he were suffering from malnutrition.

He sat down at the table with what he hoped was dignity, itching with frustration at Moriarty's self-satisfied look. One of the men who had brought him down left again, while the other stationed himself against the wall, his gun tucked away in a pocket but his hand still on it.

"Toast?" offered Moriarty. Watson gritted his teeth and took it. The faster he ate, the faster he could get away from this execrable man.

"I am curious to find out what kind of man would become the intimate companion of a man like Sherlock Holmes," said Moriarty, taking his own slice of toast. "It seems to be a somewhat thankless position."

"That just shows how little you know about him," said Watson, trying to ignore the insinuation that Moriarty had put into the words 'intimate companion'. He couldn't possibly know anything, especially as there wasn't anything to know.

"I know that he has you running around after him like some kind of dog," said Moriarty. "I wish I could get as much obedience from my men – he just clicks his fingers and you do whatever he wants."

Watson bit back the automatic rebuttal and the temptation to name all the times that that hadn't been true. The less Moriarty knew of Holmes the better, after all. Instead, he poured himself a cup of tea with hands that were a lot steadier than he felt they had the right to be. "Perhaps you are incapable of inspiring such loyalty," he replied.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, although his smile didn't change. "Perhaps," he allowed. "You hold, then, that Mr. Holmes is the remarkable one?"

"Of course Holmes is remarkable," said Watson, helping himself to a boiled egg and another few slices of toast. If he had to sit through a meal with this man, then he was certainly not going to waste his time with manners. "I suspect you'll be finding that out for yourself shortly enough."

"I think it more likely that you'll find out that Mr. Holmes is not the only remarkable man in London," said Moriarty, “and that some of us are rather better at rewarding loyalty than by letting their companions get snatched away in broad daylight.”

There was a knock at the door before Watson could respond with more than an angry look, and another man came in, dressed in a gentleman's suit but awkwardly, as if it was a costume he hadn't settled into yet.

“It's the Jameson job,” he said in an accent that would be more suited to a Whitechapel pub than a dining room, and handed Moriarty a folded note.

Moriarty read it with a faint frown and a tightening of his jaw. While his attention was distracted, Watson carefully slid his knife up the sleeve of his jacket, trying to conceal his movements as a fumbling attempt to take the shell off his egg.

“Tell Daniel to move to the second location,” said Moriarty, handing the note back. “And that if he manages to bungle something so simple as this again, he'll find himself having to explain his failure to the bottom of the Thames.” The man in the suit nodded and left.

“That's how you reward loyalty?” asked Watson.

“That's how I reward incompetence,” corrected Moriarty. “I can't abide idiots, or being mistaken for one. I suggest you remove that knife from your cuff, Doctor. Murray here would love the excuse to cause you some pain.” He nodded at the man who had brought Watson from his room, who gave an evil smirk.

Watson took the knife out again and set it next to his plate. “You can't blame me for trying,” he said with a shrug.

“Of course not,” said Moriarty. “But perhaps you could have accomplished it with slightly more grace.” He glanced at his pocket watch and stood up. “I'm afraid I must get to an appointment now, but I hope to see you again this evening.”

“Something to look forward to,” said Watson with all the dry wit he could manage.

Moriarty gave him an amused look, but chose not to reply. “Take him to a bathroom before he goes back to his room,” he said to Murray, then left the room.

Watson looked at Murray. “I don't suppose you're open to bribery at all,” he tried without much hope.

Murray sneered at him. “Get up,” he commanded. “I got better things to be doing than waiting on a do-gooder doctor all day.”

Watson took the time to dab off his moustache with a napkin before standing up. It seemed that at the moment his options were limited when it came to escape, but at least he could annoy his captors until Holmes managed a rescue.

 

****

  


****

 

Frobisher's housekeeper was extremely surprised when Holmes dropped over the wall into the backyard, and refused to accept his assurances that he wasn't there to do her any harm. She threatened him with a mop for quite some time, screeching names at him so loudly that Holmes was afraid that the whole neighbourhood would be aroused, destroying his attempt at stealth.

Frobisher came rushing out at the noise, and exclaimed in shock. “Good God!” he said. “What on earth is going on?”

“This vagabond has come to rob us!” announced the housekeeper in tones that kept getting shriller. “Scoundrel! Vermin!” She started to punctuate the insults with vicious sweeps of the mop, and Holmes was obliged to step back hurriedly to avoid her attack.

“On the contrary, Ma'am,” he said. “I am here on the business of the law. My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'm a detective, and a friend of Doctor Watson, who has visited here several times.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed Frobisher. “I'm afraid, sir, that I've met him,and you don't look a bit like him!”

“It's a disguise,” explained Holmes through gritted teeth.

Frobisher frowned and then squinted at him. “Well, blow me!” he said. “It is you! That is truly a masterful disguise. I had always thought Watson rather exaggerated in his stories, but I wouldn't have recognised you at all.”

Holmes let out a sigh, wondering that this foolish man was who Watson had chosen to keep company with rather than go to the country with Holmes. It was inexplicable.

The housekeeper reluctantly lowered her mop. “You know him?” she asked Frobisher doubtfully.

“Yes, yes,” said Frobisher. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Atkinson.”

She gave Holmes a long, disapproving look up and down, and then announced, “Well, he's not coming in the house in those boots. They're filthy.”

“I had to climb through several gardens to get here,” explained Holmes. She fixed him with a glare that reminded him of Mrs Hudson after one of his experiments had had an unexpected effect, and he found himself bending down to unlace his boots without making the conscious decision to do so.

She took them from him with a disgusted sniff, holding them gingerly. “I shall have these cleaned for you,” she said, and turned back to her kitchen.

“One moment more of your time,” asked Holmes, and she paused. “I must insist you don't mention my visit to a single soul not here present – a man's life depends on my presence here going completely unknown.”

“I am not the gossipy sort,” she said imperiously. “Rest assured, I will not be mentioning this regrettable incident to anyone.” She swept off and Holmes let out a long breath. Her pride would keep her mouth shut, at any rate.

“Come through to my study,” said Frobisher, conducting Holmes inside. “I must say, I am most curious as to the reason for your visit. Is it really a life-and-death matter?”

“Yes,” said Holmes grimly, shutting the study door firmly behind them. “And it is Watson's life hanging in the balance, so it is of the utmost importance.”

“Watson?” cried Frobisher in alarm. “Why, whatever has happened? He was fine yesterday.”

“He was kidnapped whilst returning home,” said Holmes, and Frobisher's face lost its colour.

“Kidnapped?” he repeated faintly.

“By a most unscrupulous man,” added Holmes. “I must ask you to tell me all you can remember from yesterday, when you parted company.”

Frobisher sank into a chair. “There was nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “I'm sure of it.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” said Holmes. “Every detail, please.”

Frobisher shook himself and nodded. “Well, we had lunch at Morris's club, then walked to the lecture. Afterwards, we stood and talked for a few minutes outside the lecture theatre, then Watson got into a cab and Morris and I went back to his club for a pre-dinner drink.”

Holmes leant forward in his chair. “You saw Watson get into the cab?” he asked. “What kind of cab was it? Can you describe the driver?”

Frobisher shook his head. “No, I'm sorry. The cab stand was in the other direction from the way Morris and I walked, so my back was turned. There was only one cab there, a Clarence, but I couldn't tell you anything of the driver.”

Holmes pursed his lips unhappily. If he had been there, he'd have remembered at least ten more details than that, but then, if he'd been there he'd have also prevented Watson from being kidnapped in the first place. “Who else was in the street? Did you notice anyone following you from the club to the lecture?”

Frobisher was becoming flustered under Holmes's interrogation. “No, no, I don't think so. I wasn't looking for anyone, though. I suppose we could have been followed, I really wasn't paying attention.”

“Perhaps if you had been,” said Holmes acidly, “Watson would not now be in the hands of the most despicable man in London.”

“Now see here,” blustered Frobisher, going red, “I won't take that from you. I am not the one who has led Watson into the path of such men, after all.”

Holmes knew the truth of that, could feel the cold stone of it deep in his chest, but he didn't acknowledge Frobisher's point. He stood up. “If you remember anything else, anything at all,” he said, “send a telegram to Watson asking him to dinner, and I shall come and see you again.”

Frobisher frowned. “Good God, this is all a bit cloak-and-dagger, isn't it?”

Holmes fixed him with his sternest gaze. “I was not over-exaggerating to your housekeeper,” he said. “If it is known that I am investigating this matter, Watson's life will be forfeit. If you care for him at all, you will not mention this to a single living soul.”

Frobisher nodded shakily. “I...yes, all right,” he said. “It's just a little out of my usual experience, that's all.”

“Then you should trust my judgement,” said Holmes. “Do and say nothing that you would not have done or said if I had not come here today.”

He left Frobisher sitting there and went to retrieve his boots from the redoubtable Mrs Atkinson.

He called on Morris as well, where he at least escaped being attacked with a mop, but learnt nothing of interest. The only detail that Morris was able to add to Frobisher's account was that the cab driver 'might have been wearing black.' Holmes calculated the percentage of London cab drivers who wore black overcoats and then gave up the line of inquiry in despair. He went back to Baker Street past the location of the medical lecture that Watson had attended, but there was nothing to be observed on the street that was of any help. Too many other people and carriages had travelled along it since Watson's disappearance.

He re-entered 221B in the same manner he had exited it, removed his disguise, and sat down with his pipe, waving off Mrs Hudson's attempts to force lunch upon him. It seemed that there was no easy way out of this situation, no obvious clue that would lead him to Watson's location and save him from the no doubt unpleasant meeting at Trafalgar Square this afternoon. The only thing he had to decide, then, was exactly how much he was willing to concede on Watson's behalf, should Moriarty ask it.

The answer that sprang immediately into his mind when he pondered that was, of course, anything and everything. There was no amount of money that was worth more than Watson's life, but it was extremely unlikely that Moriarty would be asking for money. Holmes mused on the phrasing of his note and the one thing he had already requested; that Holmes refuse all cases for the moment. What would he do if the price of Watson's safety was his retirement? He tried to imagine what he might occupy himself with in the absence of his cases, but the only images that came to mind were of unendurable boredom, and the inevitability of the cocaine needle.

But, then, when he tried to picture his future without Watson, all he could conjure was a blank. Of what use were his cases if he didn't have Watson by his side, exclaiming with admiration at the simplest of deductions and eagerly lending his aid in every way he could? How would he even be able to continue on knowing that his unwillingness to change careers had led to Watson's death? He didn't doubt for a moment that Moriarty would murder him if Holmes did not cooperate, and probably in a slow and painful manner. How would Holmes be able to bear that?

No, no matter what followed from it, if Moriarty demanded his retirement, then Holmes would acquiesce. It was a matter of what else he might ask that was the issue. How far was Holmes willing to compromise his honour? He thought of how Watson wrote of him in his stories, a man unshakeable in his quest for the truth, always striving for justice. If he destroyed that image of himself, if he followed some despicable scheme of Moriarty's in order to save Watson's life, how then would Watson view him? Holmes thought of Watson looking at him with disgust in his eyes, and had to shake the image away sharply.

The clock chimed the half hour, and Holmes pulled himself out of his reverie. There was no use in such contemplation until he knew for certain what Moriarty would demand and unless he left soon, he'd be late to the meeting.

He put on his coat and hat and left through the front door, nodding grimly at Mrs Hudson as he passed her. He took a cab straight to Trafalgar Square, not bothering with any prevarications or stratagems. He was no doubt being watched, after all, and the more it looked like he was following orders faithfully, the better Watson's chances were.

The cab stopped before reaching Trafalgar Square, in a mainly deserted side street. A man climbed in and settled on the seat opposite Holmes, granting him a wide smile. He knocked on the roof, and the cab started moving again.

Holmes, who had tensed up at the intrusion but made no other reaction, took in the man's appearance at a glance. He was wearing a long overcoat that hung off his frame and a bowler hat that was slightly too small for him, neither of them suited to the other. He must have either borrowed or stolen the outfit, probably to avoid giving Holmes any clues from his own clothing. His shoes were clearly his own, but had been washed clean very recently. Holmes suppressed his frustration and fixed his glare on the man's face instead.

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,” he said cheerfully. “I trust your day so far has been very relaxing?”

The cab turned left at the end of the road instead of right, heading away from Trafalgar Square. “Not in the mood to take in Nelson's Column?” asked Holmes, ignoring the question.

“Perhaps we are being over-cautious,” said the man with a shrug, “but you do have a reputation.” He held out a hand. “I am Mr. White.”

Holmes ignored the hand. “I might as well call you Mr. Pseudonym,” he said tartly. “Perhaps we could dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business.”

“As you wish,” said Mr. White. He reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “Here is our proof that we have possession of Dr. Watson, and that he is still in good health.” he held it out and Holmes snatched it out of his hand.

_Holmes,_

_I think that perhaps we should have gone to the country after all. It would have been much more relaxing._

_Make sure you take care of yourself in my absence, and don't do anything foolish. It's not worth it._

_Very sincerely yours,_

_John Watson_

Holmes read the note over twice before raising his eyes back to meet Mr. White's. “This proves nothing of the sort. You could easily have killed him after he wrote it.”

Mr. White's self-satisfied smile didn't falter. “We could,” he acknowledged. “You shall have to take my word for the present that we haven't, and that you shall receive further proof with the morning post.”

Holmes looked back down at the note, then folded it and put it safely in his pocket. “Very well,” he said. “I suppose this is where you detail your demands, but I feel you should know that neither Watson nor I are rich men.”

“Money would be a plebeian thing to ask from the world-renowned Sherlock Holmes,” said Mr. White dismissively. “We can get money from a wide range of sources.”

“When I'm not interrupting them,” Holmes felt compelled to point out.

“Precisely,” said Mr. White. “That is our first stipulation, then – in return for Dr. Watson's continued good health, we require you to retire from your profession entirely. We're unconcerned with what you chose to do instead, so long as it bears no relation to criminal investigation at all.”

As expected; Holmes had anticipated and prepared for this, although he didn't let his relief that it was nothing more outlandish show on his face. Mr. White might hold all the cards in this negotiation, but there was no need to let him know that. “My work is very important to me,” he said instead.

“We're confident that Dr. Watson is more important,” said Mr. White. “You would not want his corpse discarded on your doorstep, surely?”

Holmes felt his teeth grind together. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “No more detecting, but if I find you've harmed a hair on his head, I shall not rest until every single one of you is under lock and key.”

“Excellent!” said Mr. White, ignoring the threat. “Then there merely remains the matter of Dr. Watson's freedom. I'm afraid that hinges on rather more from you – the Professor would like you to take a role in his organisation.”

Holmes felt the muscles of his heart clench. This was the choice he had feared having to make. “What kind of role?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I'm afraid my skills as a tea boy are lacking.”

“Oh, I'm sure we'll find something suited to your intellect,” said Mr. White. “There's already a task that the Professor has in mind for you, and once you've completed it, he's prepared to let Watson go home.”

“You mean, once he has enough evidence that he can blackmail me into doing his bidding without the use of Watson,” corrected Holmes. “What is this task?”

“There's a business rival that we would prefer was out of the way,” said Mr. White. “He's not a nice man – no one you'd hesitate to act against in the course of your usual work. We need him thoroughly eliminated.”

Murder, then. Holmes thought it over, wondering if he could kill a man in cold blood for Watson's sake. He rather thought he could, but the consequences would be much harder to cope with. He did not fool himself for a moment that one murder would be an end of it. Moriarty would keep him on a string for the rest of his life, each crime that Holmes committed for him meaning that he had more blackmail material to use against him the next time he wanted something.

“Well,” said Mr. White after Holmes's silence had stretched on for a while. “No need to decide immediately. We will keep Watson safe as long as you refrain from your usual business. If you decide you wish to have him home, just hang a red cloth in your living room window and we will contact you with the details.”

The carriage turned left and Holmes knew without looking that they were turning into Baker Street. “You'll provide me with proof that he's alive on a daily basis,” he said, firmly.

Mr. White nodded. “In the morning post,” he agreed.

“Have him copy out the newspaper headline,” stipulated Holmes, “so that I know it is current.”

“Of course,” said Mr. White. They pulled up outside 221B, and Holmes picked up his hat, preparing to alight. “We are perfectly happy to keep Watson for as long as it takes for you to decide whether or not his freedom is important enough for you to let your pride go. The Professor has already taken rather a shine to him, in fact.”

Holmes ground his teeth together. The very idea of Moriarty getting to know Watson well enough to see all his sterling qualities upset him more than he'd have thought. “You just make sure you do nothing to hurt him,” he gritted out.

“That depends on your ability to refrain from detective work,” said Mr. White, still sounding far more jovial than Holmes could stand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I do hope to hear from you soon.”

Holmes glared at him and left the cab. He looked it over carefully as it pulled away, noting that Morris had been right – the driver was wearing a large black cape. No doubt Moriarty had many uses for a pet cab and driver, of which kidnapping was only one.

He went inside, straight up to the living room, throwing aside his hat and coat with barely a thought for where they landed. He pulled out a large map of London and spread it out on the table. Mr. White and the driver might both have wiped their shoes clean of any tell-tale dirt traces, but no one had thought to do the same for the cab wheels. They had been a veritable goldmine of information about where the cab had travelled, and if Holmes could just piece the journey together, Watson might be at the end of it. Or, at the very least, a clue to his whereabouts might be.

 

****

  


****

 

Watson passed a very boring morning. He investigated his prison thoroughly, but there was no hint of an escape route, and no entertainment of any sort either. He ended up lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and half-dozing. His mind was unable to still enough to allow him to sleep properly, worrying at what Moriarty might have in mind for Holmes, what Holmes might be up to, and how it all might end for both of them. He hadn't felt so out of control of his life since just after Maiwand, when he had been unable to do more than lie in hospital and wait to see if he was going to live or die. At least then he'd been kept busy with delirium and lack of consciousness. This infernal waiting was going to drive him out of his mind long before Holmes either managed to rescue or ransom him, or Moriarty decided to kill him.

When lunch time finally arrived, it brought with it Murray carrying a tray. “Been having fun?” he asked snidely as he set it down on the end of the bed.

“Not really,” said Watson, sitting up. “It would seem that being imprisoned is incredibly dull.”

Murray snorted. “Maybe we should get you breaking rocks,” he said darkly.

“I'd prefer a newspaper or a book. Or a pack of cards – anything, really,” replied Watson.

Murray glared at him. “This isn't your gentleman's club.”

“I'm getting to the stage where I'll start singing to entertain myself,” said Watson. “Trust me, you don't want that.”

“I'll see what the Professor says,” said Murray, and left.

Watson looked over the tray. Bread and cheese, an apple and a cup of tea. He wondered if Holmes was bothering to eat anything and then firmly closed that line of thought down. He had enough things to worry about at the moment without adding Holmes's health and welfare into it, no matter how familiar and comforting it was to think about such things.

Murray came back half an hour later with a newspaper that Watson took gratefully.

“The Professor says that the price is you eating dinner with him,” said Murray with a grin. For a moment Watson contemplated refusing the newspaper, but he really couldn't stomach an afternoon that passed as slowly as his morning had and besides, dinner with Moriarty meant leaving the room. He didn't flatter himself that he'd be able to escape, but he might see something that gave him the start of a plan.

He read the newspaper from cover to cover that afternoon, even the advertisements, and was staring at the crossword, wondering if he'd somehow be able to do it without a pen, when Murray arrived to escort him to the dining room.

“You're not going to dress for dinner?” he asked with a malicious smirk and Watson glared at him. He'd now been wearing these clothes for nearly forty-eight hours, and he was beginning to wonder just how much longer he'd be expected to wear them.

“I don't think dinner with a criminal really calls for a dinner jacket,” he said.

“Let's go,” said Murray, gesturing towards the door with his gun. As there had been that morning, there was another man outside, and both of them walked him down to the dining room. They took the same route and Watson endeavoured to think like Holmes, trying to observe everything and concoct a plan of escape, but all he could see was locked windows and closed doors.

Moriarty was waiting for him and he smiled when Watson came in. “Good evening, Doctor,” he said. “So good of you to join me.”

Watson glowered at him. “It says a lot about you that you are only able to get dinner companions at gun point.”

Moriarty's smile tightened and he gestured to a chair. “Please be seated. I rather think you're going to want to hear what Mr. Holmes had to say today, and I insist on eating before dealing with business.”

Watson didn't hesitate before sitting. If he had to jump through a few harmless loops in order to find out what was going on, then so be it.

“Good, good,” said Moriarty with a smile, then nodded at Murray. “Inform the kitchen that we are ready.”

The food was excellent and plentiful, and Watson spared a moment to be grateful that his incarceration didn't include the usual diet of a prisoner, but he didn't pause to savour it. He ate as quickly as possible, trying to get through this ridiculous farce so that he could find out what Holmes had said, and then get away from Moriarty.

Moriarty did not share his hurry. He ate leisurely, conversing on a number of subjects and treating Watson's monosyllabic and occasionally rude responses as if they were normal responses between two gentlemen dining together. Watson found himself drawn in against his will, particularly when Moriarty started to discuss literature and he found they shared similar opinions on some of the books that Watson had read recently - books that Holmes had scorned without even opening the covers.

“I was worried whilst reading it that it was too convoluted, and that Wilkie Collins would lose his grip on all the threads of plot, but the ending was very well done,” said Moriarty, gesturing with his glass.

“Yes, you felt that everyone had ended up precisely where they ought to be,” said Watson, then bit his tongue. He reminded himself sharply that this man was a crook of the worst sort, and did not deserve an ounce of his attention or engagement. Maybe he should attempt to impersonate Holmes at a social engagement with people he considered to be his intellectual inferiors. “I suppose you thought that the Moonstone should have ended up cut and sold in Amsterdam, though, rather than back where it rightfully belonged. It must be hard to read a crime novel when all your sympathy is with the villain.”

Moriarty raised an eyebrow and set his glass down. They had finished their dessert and the plates had been cleared several minutes ago. “Well, I suppose that's the cue to turn to business,” he said.

 _It's about time,_ thought Watson, and then remembered that he wasn't worrying about being polite and repeated it out loud.

Moriarty lost his composure for an instant and an angry look flashed across his face. “It seems that you are going to be my guest for a while longer at least,” he said. “I suggest that you learn to keep a civil tongue in your head, before I lose my patience and allow my men to work out some of their frustration at Holmes's meddling on you.”

“Holmes didn't agree to your demands?” asked Watson, ignoring the threat. Something froze within him at the thought, but he couldn't tell if it was with relief or disappointment.

“Not all of them,” said Moriarty. “You'll be relieved, no doubt, to hear that he agreed to enough to secure your safety, but he stopped short of giving in enough to gain your freedom. Perhaps he is enjoying having your rooms to himself.”

Watson bristled at the suggestion that Holmes would do less than his level best to free him. “Or perhaps he already has a plan of how to rescue me,” he suggested.

Moriarty allowed himself a smile. “He has no idea where you are,” he reminded Watson. “And not investigating further is one of the things that he has capitulated on. I'm afraid you cannot hope for rescue.”

Watson glowered at him but did not deign to reply. If Moriarty thought there was any way that Holmes would be able to give up looking for him so easily, to allow himself to be bested without even putting up a fight, then he wasn't going to shatter his illusions. Holmes was at his most dangerous when he was under-estimated.

“I'm having my men put some things in your room to allow for a more protracted stay,” said Moriarty, ignoring Watson's glare. “Murray told me earlier that you were asking after reading material, and I've instructed them to include a few periodicals and books that I have lying around. Is there anything else I can offer you?”

“A swift cab back to Baker Street?” suggested Watson.

Moriarty let out a short sigh and moved to stand up. “This attitude is going to wear away my good will faster than you'd like,” he said in a warning tone.

Watson thought of the day he'd have, and how quickly he'd lose his mind if he had to go through a longer period of time without anything to occupy himself with. “Perhaps a pen,” he said quickly before Moriarty could leave. “I wouldn't mind a chance to do the crossword.”

Moriarty smiled at him as if he was a pet who had successfully performed a trick. “Of course,” he said graciously, and reached inside his jacket to pull out a pen. “You may have mine.” He handed it to Watson, who took it with a sense of reluctance, wondering if playing this man's game was really going to be worth it.

“Now,” said Moriarty, checking his pocket watch, “as much as I would enjoy the chance to continue our conversation, I'm afraid tonight is going to be a rather busy one for my organisation.” He wished Watson a pleasant evening and left the room.

Murray escorted Watson back to his cell, which had been substantially refurnished with the additions of a small desk and chair, a wash stand and a chest that contained a variety of clothes, none of them particularly new but all clean and neatly folded. The washstand was already filled with a good quantity of hot water and had a thick-looking towel placed next to it.

As soon as Murray had left him alone, Watson wasted no time in stripping off his old clothes and washing the accumulated filth of two days off himself. Someone had placed the articles necessary for shaving in the drawer of the washstand, along with a mirror, and he took his time with them, carefully returning his face to its usual appearance. He carefully worked around his moustache, then regarded himself for a long moment in the mirror. He would need a small pair of scissors with which to trim his moustache if he was to be kept captive much longer, but there was not much he could do about it just yet. He thought for a brief moment about asking Moriarty for scissors, then chastised himself for vanity. On no account was he going to ask Moriarty for anything more unless he had to, not when he seemed to take such delight in Watson asking.

He dressed again in some of the clothes from the chest, digging through to find articles that would match amongst the motley assortment, then turned his attention to the stack of books and magazines on the desk. There were several novels he hadn't yet had a chance to read, as well as the latest copy of The Lancet and a few other assorted medical journals. Unlike the clothes, these had clearly all been chosen with him in mind. He found the thought disturbing and put the books to one side so that he could lay out the newspaper instead, turning to the page with the crossword.

It took him longer than usual to complete it – his thoughts kept wandering to Holmes and what he might be doing, or to what Moriarty had planned for him. When he had finished, it had grown late enough that he could feel the impact of the previous night's lack of rest and the stress of the day beginning to weigh him down. He changed into a nightshirt, which was rather too short for him but at least gave him a sense of decency, turned the lamp out and lay down on the bed, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

 

****

 

He awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and lay there for a while, marvelling at the difference that a bathe, a fresh set of clothes and a good night's rest could work. Still, the reality of his situation was still weighing heavily on his mind. He wondered how many more mornings he would wake in this room before he was back in Baker Street and suddenly, abruptly, found himself missing the morning sounds of home so much that he could almost taste it. The clink of cutlery as the maid and Mrs. Hudson set out their breakfast, the morning flow of traffic passing under his window, even the distant sound of Holmes grumbling at something Mrs. Hudson had tidied away somewhere; it all seemed so far away that it might as well have been another country.

There was a tentative tap on his door and he raised himself up on his elbows, frowning. Who would knock on the door of a prisoner? The door was opened without waiting for his response and a maid came in, carefully carrying a jug of hot water and a bucket, while Murray stood behind her in the doorway, his gun out and a scowl on his face.

“Good morning,” said the maid, carefully setting the jug down on the washstand.

“Morning,” replied Watson, bemused.

As if the situation were perfectly normal – and perhaps it was for her, she did work in Moriarty's household, after all - she emptied away the cold water from the previous day, then refilled the bowl carefully. She spotted the pile of his dirty clothes as she turned to leave, and looked back over at Watson. “I'll take those to be laundered,” she said. Watson just nodded, and she gathered them up and slipped out of the room again, past Murray.

“The Professor wants you at breakfast again,” he told Watson sourly. “I'll be back in half an hour to get you – you better be up then. I don't like to be kept waiting, and neither does he.”

He shut the door behind himself and Watson heard the snick of the lock turning again. He lay back on the pillow, not sure what to make of it all. What was Moriarty's game with all these shared meals, and attempts to pretend that Watson was more of a guest than a prisoner? He hadn't lived with Holmes for this long and not learned that there was always a reason behind such actions. He just had to figure out what Moriarty's was before he found himself entangled too tightly in it.

 

****

 

Moriarty was talking to a man dressed in rough clothes when Murray escorted Watson into the dining room. Watson couldn't help noticing that there was blood splattered down the front of the man's shirt, looking to be only a few hours old, and found himself calculating just how bad the wound must have been to cause that level of blood loss. It was clear that it was not the man's blood, and Watson found his brain shying away from just how he might have come by such a stain.

“A partial failure is nevertheless still a failure,” Moriarty was saying in a cold voice.

“I know, Professor,” said the man, ducking his head. “I'm sorry, I am, but there was more of them than we was expecting, and then Will got shanked, and well...”

He trailed off in the face of Moriarty's glare. “Next time, endeavour to be better prepared.”

“Yes, Professor,” said the man contritely.

Moriarty glanced up and caught Watson's eye, greeting him with a polite, “Good morning,” that Watson couldn't prevent himself from returning.

The man turned to leave the room as Watson sat down, but Moriarty called him back just before he left. “Toby,” he said, “make sure you keep me updated on Will's condition. If it looks bad, I'll make sure he gets treatment.”

The man's shoulders relaxed, and he almost smiled. “Yes, Professor, thank you,” he said, and left the room.

The mention of treatment almost made Watson ask if there was some way he could help before he remembered the circumstances, and the likely cause of any injury to one of Moriarty's men. He served himself from the breakfast dishes on the table with the intention of getting through the meal as quickly as possible and with the minimum of conversation.

Moriarty did not subscribe to this plan, however. He attempted to continue their conversation of the night before, asking Watson's opinion on a few novels that he was intending to read. Watson gave his views as tersely as possible, despite the temptation to take advantage of having an attentive listener and explain himself more fully.

“You're not really a morning person, are you, Doctor?” observed Moriarty, nursing the cup of coffee that was all he had taken so far.

“Not when the morning starts with a conversation with a criminal,” said Watson shortly.

“You're rather obsessed with the legality of what I do,” said Moriarty. “It really is just a matter of viewpoint – when you think about it, adherence to rules imposed by others, many of whom are of a lesser intelligence than oneself, is the sign of a weak mind. I don't believe any man has the right to judge my actions except myself, no matter if they're wearing a judge's wig or hold a seat at Westminster.”

Watson stared at him. “Surely you must see that any society must have laws to avoid descending into utter chaos?” he said. “If every man thought as you did, the whole country would be awash with bandits and murderers. How then would we have built our Empire, or invented the technological breakthroughs which have benefits for the whole of mankind?”

Moriarty waved a negligent hand. “Oh, I agree that the majority of people need the law in order to keep society working – just as the men in my organisation needs rules to keep them from destroying what I have built. However, are there not men who are above that? Men who are able to use their own judgement rather than relying on the justice system? I am counting Sherlock Holmes in that group as well as myself – you cannot tell me that he adheres rigidly to the law if he deems it a hindrance in a particular set of circumstances.”

“There is a considerable difference between the very occasional times when Holmes has bent the law in order to obtain justice for someone in dire straits, and what you do,” replied Watson crossly. “I trust Holmes's moral judgement almost more than I trust my own. I'm not sure you even have such a thing.”

“Moral judgement is merely a cage, imposed by society in order to limit the brilliant,” said Moriarty. “I am not in the habit of allowing myself to be shackled, Doctor.”

“Then you will not enjoy prison,” cut in Watson.

“I strongly doubt I shall ever go there,” said Moriarty. He leaned back in his chair. “There is only one scale by which a man might be judged, and neither morality nor obedience to the dictates of government are of any import on it. Either a man is strong and can take everything he wants from the world, or he is weak and must make do with what he is given.” He waved a hand around at the dining room. “Do you think that a mere university professor could live like this? Compare my circumstances with that of even the most renowned academic, and tell me then that living according to society's dictates is worth a ha'penny. And besides,” he added after a moment's pause, with a half-smile, “it has given me the opportunity to know you, Doctor.”

Watson snorted. “I'm afraid I don't count that as a good thing,” he said. “Neither do I agree with the rest of your statement. Riches are all very well, but I would much rather live in Whitechapel's meanest tenement with a clear conscience and the knowledge that my honour is intact than have all the finery of an emperor with a blackened soul.”

“How very prosaic,” remarked Moriarty. “I can assure you that those who do live in Whitechapel's tenements would not agree with that statement.” He set his cup down and glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “As much as I have enjoyed debating this, I'm afraid I have an appointment.”

“Don't let me keep you,” said Watson, annoyed to find that he had been dragged into a discussion despite himself, and almost forgotten to eat his breakfast. He settled back down to it now, hoping that Moriarty would take himself away and leave him to it.

Instead, Moriarty gestured at Murray. “Today's newspaper,” he said. Murray nodded and left the room. “I'm afraid there's one piece of business that we still need to conclude,” he said, turning back to Watson.

Watson felt something cold touch his stomach, and found himself automatically straightening up, prepared to face anything.

Moriarty noticed his trepidation. “There's no need to worry, it's nothing strenuous.” Murray returned, holding a newspaper, and handed it to Moriarty. “I merely need you to copy out the headline and sign it for me.”

He handed the newspaper and a sheet of paper over to Watson, who regarded them both for rather a long moment with a frown. “For what purpose?” he asked.

“Mr. Holmes is hesitant to believe that I would keep my word when it came to your continued welfare,” replied Moriarty. “I'm afraid we're going to have to do this every morning, tedious as it seems.”

So it was for Holmes. Watson picked up the pen without hesitating, wishing he could do more than copy out the six words that comprised the headline and thereby feel some sense of real communication with Holmes. Moriarty was watching him closely, however, so Watson contented himself with merely:

_Prince Of Wales Opens Eiffel Tower_

_very sincerely yours,  
John Watson_

Moriarty looked it over for a minute, no doubt searching for some form of secret code, although how such a thing could have been inserted in such a short message, Watson had no idea. “Very good,” he said, tucking the note away. “You may keep the newspaper, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” said Watson, and then felt like cursing himself. He really must remember that there was no need to thank the man who had kidnapped him and was blackmailing his closest friend.

“Don't mention it,” replied Moriarty, smirking as though he could read Watson's thoughts. “I shall see you at dinner.”

He left the room while Watson was still trying to suppress the dismay he felt at knowing that he was going to have to sit through another such meal today.

Murray glared at Watson as soon as Moriarty was gone. “You finished?” he demanded.

Watson looked down at his half-full plate and picked up his cutlery. “Not at all,” he said. “I'm afraid I may be a while yet.”

No doubt it was petty, but the annoyed look on Murray's face was worth it, and Watson enjoyed the rest of his breakfast as slowly as possible.

 

****

  


****

 

Holmes's false beard itched. He clenched his fingers tighter together to stop himself scratching at it and huddled back further into the doorway he was crouched in. He'd left in rather a hurry once he'd deduced where the cab must have originated from, and he had put the beard on very quickly. If he attempted to relieve the tingling itch, he risked dislodging the thing entirely. He was wrapped in a large and very ancient coat with a battered hat pulled low over his face, looking like any of the thousand impoverished beggars who could be found squatting in doorways all across London on nights such as this. No one at the stables that he was watching had cast him a first glance, let alone a second, but the sudden removal of his beard might raise more than a few eyebrows.

Another cab arrived and Holmes eyed it as it turned into the courtyard. The driver was dressed in brown rather than black, and the cab itself was smaller than the one he'd ridden in earlier that day. He relaxed again, hoping that he would not be here all night waiting for Moriarty's cab, and then it started to rain. Nothing more than a dreary grey drizzle, but it was enough to soak through the old boots he'd pulled from a dustbin to complete his costume.

He reminded himself that this was for Watson and watched as another cab drove into the stables, noting the incorrect colours of the reins and harnesses almost absently. His mind wandered to where Watson might be right now, what he might be doing, and then shuddered away from the mental images that the darker part of his mind came up with. Moriarty's man had said that he would come to no harm as long as Holmes kept his side of the bargain, but Holmes knew there were many ways to cause privation without actual physical harm. Thinking of Watson trapped in some tiny dark room, tied up or chained down, surrounded by criminals, made the hair on Holmes's neck stand up.

It was almost enough for him to take Moriarty up on his offer – _almost_ enough. The longer Watson was held by Moriarty, the more Holmes found himself considering it, but the idea of murdering someone on Moriarty's orders, of becoming just another of his rogues and sacrificing almost everything that he held important was just too much of a hurdle to get over. Moreover, he did not fool himself that Watson would understand. The good doctor would never consider his safety and well-being important enough to warrant such a drastic step, and there would be no way for Holmes to explain to him that, as far as he was concerned, he was worth all that and much more.

It would be too much for Watson's respectability to live in the same rooms as a criminal, even one that had been his closest friend. No doubt he would attempt to extricate Holmes from the trap Moriarty had set, but there was no way that Moriarty would release Watson before the trap had completely closed, leaving Holmes in his power for good. Watson would leave. Regretfully, certainly, and with self-recrimination, but it was as inevitable as Holmes coming to care for him had been.

Certainly, a Watson who was alive and well and free was far better than one who was held captive by Moriarty, even if it meant that Holmes was without him, but Holmes was not ready to give in to that without trying every other possible avenue first. Hence his long vigil outside these stables. He had to trust that the cab would come back here at some stage, either for a change of horses, or for the night. If he followed it when it left again, it might lead him to Mr. White or even to Moriarty himself, and from there to Watson. He just had to be patient.

He tucked himself back further into the doorway and set his eyes on the entrance to the stables. Discomfort and cold were not going to stand between him and Watson.

 

****

 

Two hours later, the cab he had been waiting for finally arrived. Holmes felt every muscle twitch, ready for action, but forced himself to remain, unmoving, where he was. Despite his inclinations, taking the driver somewhere private and attempting to beat answers out of him offered only a small chance of success, and a rather large chance that Moriarty would hear about it, realise that he was not sitting in Baker Street as he'd promised, and take his revenge on Watson.

The driver unharnessed the horses and led them into the stables, then set about storing the cab for the night. Holmes felt frustration burn through him – he would have to wait through the night until the morning before getting any answers.

The driver waved to a couple of the other men at the yard, tucked his coat more securely around him, then left. Holmes watched him go, debating between following him, and staying with the cab. His decision was made for him when he caught sight of Wiggins, dressed even more shabbily than usual and heading straight for him.

Holmes had left Mrs. Hudson with instructions to send Wiggins to him here if anything requiring his attention happened – he had no idea how long he'd be gone from Baker Street, after all, and the situation was too fluid to trust that nothing would occur in his absence.

“Mr. Holmes, sir,” said Wiggins a little breathlessly when he reached him.

Holmes shushed him, glancing around, but no one seemed to have caught the name. “Call me Botham,” he instructed.

Wiggins nodded. “Mrs. Hudson said to tell you that Inspector Lestrade sent a telegram. He's going to call on you tomorrow morning, and will you be back for then? She said to say that she's not comfortable lying to the constabulo-la-lary,” he stumbled over the word and frowned, then corrected himself, “the police, unless you thought it was really necessary.”

Holmes frowned with annoyance. Damn Lestrade, somehow he always managed to be a nuisance. “I will almost certainly not be back,” he said. “You shall have to tell Mrs Hudson that lying to Lestrade can't be helped, and she's to stick to the story that I'm indisposed – she can embellish it a little if she wishes, tell him I'm in one of my moods, and not fit for company. I'm sure she'll be able to come up with some details that would ring true. On no account is she to let anything slip about the current situation.”

Wiggins nodded seriously.

“Oh,” added Holmes, “And if the Inspector asks after Watson, he is away for a few days in the country, but she's not sure where exactly, or when he'll be back. Got that?”

Wiggins nodded again. “You're indisposed in a mood, Doctor Watson is in the country, and you don't know when you'll be back,” he recited.

“Good lad,” said Holmes. He glanced over at the stable yard, but the driver was long gone, which meant he was going to be in the alleyway until the morning, at least. He would stay far longer in far worse places for Watson's sake, but there was a limit to some elements of his endurance, and it had been well over twenty-four hours since he had eaten. He felt inside his coat pocket for a handful of coins.

“Before you return to Mrs. Hudson,” he said to Wiggins, “I shall need one last favour from you. Could you run and find me something to drink, and a bite to eat?”

“Course!” said Wiggins, and ran off with the money clutched in his hand. He returned fifteen minutes later with an unpleasantly grey-looking meat pie and a bottle of weak beer.

“Excellent,” said Holmes, taking both from him. “Now, you hurry back and stay at Baker Street in case Mrs. Hudson needs you again. I'll likely remain here until tomorrow morning, but I can't say where I'll be after that. I'll either return or send a telegram by the evening, although that, of course, will not be in my name.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Botham,” said Wiggins, and skipped off back down the street.

Holmes settled back into his doorway, attempting to make himself comfortable. It was likely to be a long, cold, damp night waiting for the driver to return, and then a frustrating day trying to tail him without being seen, but anything that put him even one tiny step closer to Watson's location was more than worth it.

 

****

 

The cabman came back an hour or so after the pale light of dawn had started to light up the eastern sky. Holmes, still decidedly damp from the rain the night before, watched him wander into the stables courtyard with a cheerful grin, greeting his fellows with an honest goodwill, and found himself scowling. Clearly someone had had a much better night than he.

The driver wasted no time in harnessing his horse to his cab and Holmes stretched out all his limbs, trying to regain a full range of movement so that he would be ready for the chase today. He ducked into a nearby alley to discard his hat and exchange his coat for a slightly more respectable one that he had stashed there the night before. Time for a change of character.

There was an old barrel tucked under a leaking gutter pipe, half-filled with tepid water, and he used it to remove his false beard and wash some of the grime off his face and hands. It had now been several days since he had last found time to shave, and he had a reasonable amount of stubble coming through, enough to cover the lines of his face.

When he exited the alley, he was an out-of-work labourer. If the driver had noted the homeless man cowering in a doorway the night before, there was no way he'd link him with Holmes's new persona.

Following the cab through the busy morning traffic was easier than Holmes had feared. It traced its way through some of the main thoroughfares of the city, past several cabstands and opportunities for finding a fare, until it reached the Moorgate telegram office, where the driver pulled up. He jumped out quickly and headed inside. Following him in would be far too conspicuous at this point so Holmes contented himself with walking past the cab and glancing quickly in the window. It was empty, and for a moment he considered darting inside, but the consequences of discovery were too dire.

Instead, he loitered nearby and watched as the driver exited the office again. He climbed back up on his cab and drove off with less purpose than he'd had before. Holmes trailed him as best he could, but it wasn't long before he stopped again, at a cabstand where he pulled up in the line. Holmes hid down an alleyway until the driver picked up his first fare, a pair of middle-class ladies, and then hopped quickly onto the cab behind.

“Follow that cab,” he directed tersely, and the driver gave him an amused look.

“Should I paint the horses so they don't recognise us?” he asked as he started up the horses.

Holmes ignored him, eyes fixed on the cab and wondering just how much criss-crossing of London there would be before Moriarty's driver led him to Watson.

 

****

 

Holmes spent most of the rest of the day following along on a rather typical cabman's course, as the cab he was trailing picked up fares and took them all over central London. Holmes kept up with a combination of fast footwork, taking other cabs whenever he could, and occasionally endeavouring to be close enough to hear the ultimate destination when a new customer climbed on board so that he could make it there first, using his knowledge of London's back streets. It would have been extremely frustrating and down-heartening to waste an entire day on such an activity, if it weren't for the sole anomaly in the cabman's pattern. Every two hours, or as close as he could make it, he returned to the Moorgate telegram office and went inside briefly. Holmes followed him inside once or twice, and was able to overhear him asking the man behind the counter if there was a telegram left for him.

The officer replied to him with a familiarity that gave away that this was a normal part of his routine, but there wasn't a telegram left for the driver until nearly 4 in the afternoon, by which time Holmes was beginning to feel the effects of over forty-eight hours without much food and with only a modicum of rest. The driver read the telegram carefully, then checked his watch. He discarded the paper in the bin and headed back out to his cab. Holmes immediately liberated the telegram and read it over.

YOUR PRESENCE REQUIRED AT ELDERS AT 5.30 STOP

As Holmes had suspected, this was how Moriarty communicated with the driver. Now he just had to hope that the trip to 'Elders' would provide a clue that continued the trail to Watson.

 

****

 

Now that he knew that there was nothing of importance likely to occur until half past five, Holmes was able to follow the cab at more of a distance; just close enough not to risk losing it, but far enough so that, hopefully, his presence was less detectable than it had been.

However, he made sure he was close enough at quarter past five to watch the cabman check his watch again as he let out a well-heeled gentleman at a private club. He whipped up his horses with slightly more aggression than he had shown so far, and Holmes immediately secured another cab for himself, following as close behind as he could.

Elders was a reasonably large town house located in the most respectable part of South Kensington. The cab drew up right outside the door and the driver climbed down to knock. Holmes instructed his own cab to wait around the corner from the house, and watched as the door was opened by someone out of his sightline. The cabman touched his hat respectfully to whoever it was and after the briefest of conversations, returned to his cab.

There was a pause as both the cabman and Holmes waited, and Holmes took the chance to creep slightly closer, sheltering behind a large hedge and hoping that the shadows would keep him hidden. Dressed as he was, he would look out-of-place in such a neighbourhood to any who saw him, even if they weren't Moriarty's men.

The front door opened again and two men came out. One was helping the other, one arm wrapped tightly around his body as he carefully guided him down the steps to the waiting cab. Holmes took in the other man's gait and the moments when he winced or hissed a swear word, and deduced that he had been injured in the chest in some way, within the last twenty-four hours. Why would they be moving someone who was so obviously unfit for travelling? Unless they were taking him to a doctor, or even a hospital, where Holmes should be able to gain access to him and perhaps ask him some questions. He was preparing to go back to his cab in order to follow, when something happened that immediately changed his plans.

As the first man helped his injured companion up into the cab, his coat fell open, revealing that he was wearing no shirt and had a great deal of bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. Holmes stopped still and just stared for a moment, quite forgetting that he was meant to be remaining hidden. He'd recognise that particular pattern of bandages anywhere, as distinctive and familiar as the face of the man who had tied them. There was no doubt in his mind – Watson had dressed the man's wound, and so must be somewhere inside the house in front of him.

The two men settled in the cab and it pulled away, but Holmes wasn't even watching. His eyes were instead fixed on the house in front of him, noting everything he could about it. An almost over-whelming part of him wanted to march straight in there and get to Watson as soon as he could, but he knew that such an action would be foolish. He needed to prepare properly or he was likely to end the day as Watson's fellow prisoner rather than his rescuer.

The house was surrounded by a high wall which was topped by shards of shattered glass, and all the ground floor windows that Holmes could see were barred. Infiltrating it would be difficult – no doubt Moriarty would have several henchmen on hand, and had arranged contingency plans which might well include making sure that the only way Holmes would find Watson would be as a corpse. Such a thing could not be allowed to happen – Holmes would have to move extremely carefully.

He gazed at the house for a while longer, then returned to his cab and ordered it to the corner of Baker Street. His mind was whirling fast, examining every possible plan and abandoning those that had any probability of Watson being harmed.

He re-entered 221B through the attic window, then went to his room and removed his disguise. Mrs. Hudson had left the day's post on the side for him, and he sorted quickly through it until he found the letter that Mr. White had promised him, his proof that Watson was still alive. Seeing the Doctor's familiar handwriting made something within his chest clench painfully, and he stroked one finger over the curling lines of his signature, silently promising that by this time tomorrow, the whole ghastly ordeal would be well and truly in the past for both of them.

 

****

  


****

 

Despite the books and magazines that Moriarty had provided for him, Watson still found himself restless and bored that morning. He started reading the paper, but found his eyes barely focussing on the words and eventually tossed it aside. The problem was that he was not accustomed to spending days at a time unable to leave the house, and his body itched for something to do. He couldn't stand this stagnation and he found himself pacing the room, turning every few steps to avoid the walls. If he was kept in such conditions for long, he had no doubt that no amount of reading material was going to prevent him from going mad.

He sat down on the bed and picked up the newspaper again, resolving to attempt the crossword. Perhaps actively engaging with a puzzle would calm the nagging sense that he should be doing something.

He got through the first three clues before throwing the paper down again and lying back with a sigh. It seemed that would be no help either.

His mind turned to the times when he had seen Holmes restlessly shifting from task to task without completing any of them, and wondered if this was how he felt at such times. He felt briefly ashamed of his usual reaction, which was to snap at Holmes to stop fidgeting about, and then he reminded himself that Holmes had a far greater range of options than he did. He could go for a walk, stroll through one of London's many parks and enjoy the outdoors, or he could go out to a concert, or the opera, or even just dinner, all of which Watson would give a great deal to be able to do right now. Instead, Holmes almost inevitably turned to his drugs to calm his nerves, leaving Watson locked out of whatever internal battle he was involved in.

Watson thought about the last time that he and Holmes had gone for a walk together, a week before he had been kidnapped and the day before Lestrade had brought the smuggling case to Holmes's attention. They'd wandered through St. James's Park together after a particularly good lunch out, and Holmes had taken Watson's arm with such a proprietary air that Watson had had to hide his amusement by feigning an interest in a passing bee. Holmes had spent the rest of the walk lecturing Watson on all aspects of bees and bee-keeping, astonishing Watson, who had no idea that such a topic was deemed important enough by Holmes to be retained in his 'brain attic'.

He wondered if Holmes had possession yet of the note that Moriarty had made him write that morning, and whether he could deduce anything from it. He thought of all the things he would have said if he'd had the chance. _I'm sorry I got us in this mess by being careless. Moriarty is even more unbalanced than we'd thought. Don't give in to him, whatever happens. I miss you._

The pen was still in his hand from his failed attempt at the crossword, and he found himself shifting it in his grip as if he'd actually be able to write his thoughts down. His eye fell on the blank white wall next to him and he thought of the tales of prisoners who recorded the length of their incarceration on the walls of their cells. He shifted the pillow and pushed back the mattress so that he had access to a section usually hidden, and carefully wrote a short message in the code that Holmes had taught him last year when a particularly delicate case had necessitated a greater level of privacy in their missives than was usual.

_JHW 31st March 1889, missing home._

He looked at it for a long moment, trying to decide what else he should add, but before he could make a decision, a key turned in the lock of his door. He hastily replaced the pillow, hiding the writing, and hoped that he had not been seen writing it through some spyhole he was unaware of. A tiny part of him had a sudden mad hope that it was Holmes coming to rescue him, but it was Moriarty who stepped inside.

“Good morning again, Doctor,” he said. “I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”

Watson favoured him with a glare. “At the moment, you have all my time,” he said bitterly.

“Excellent,” said Moriarty. “Then I wonder if you might take a look at one of my men. He was injured last night and could do with some medical assistance.”

Watson's glare hardened. “You expect me to tend to the very men who are holding me captive?”

“I rather thought the Hippocratic Oath expected that,” returned Moriarty. “But then, I am neither a medical man, nor highly versed in ethical considerations, as we discussed last night. All I know is that there is no way we can take him to any other doctor and he grows steadily worse.”

Watson sighed, rubbing at his forehead. Moriarty was right, of course. _Whatever houses I may visit, I will come for the benefit of the sick_ didn't include a clause for houses that you had been forced to visit against your will.

“I'll need medical provisions,” said Watson tiredly, standing up.

“I instructed Murray to, ah, procure a medical kit for you,” replied Moriarty, leading the way out into the corridor, where Murray was waiting, a pistol in one hand and a battered Gladstone in the other.

“You stole a doctor's bag?” asked Watson incredulously. “The tools of a healer?” He was aghast for a moment, and then remembered where he was. “I suppose it's naive of me to be surprised.”

“One of my men had need of it,” said Moriarty as if it was that simple. “This way, Doctor.”

He led the way upstairs to what would have been the servant's rooms in a normal household and opened the door to one of the rooms. “I won't stay,” he said, “but rest assured that Murray will be keeping a close eye on you.”

Watson glanced at Murray. “Excellent,” he said. “I do so enjoy his company.”

Murray thrust the bag at him with a sneer and gestured with his gun. “Inside, doctor.”

Inside the room, the man who had reported to Moriarty that morning – Toby, Watson remembered – was sitting by the bedside of another man, one who was clearly in a considerable amount of pain.

Watson immediately found himself springing into action, pushing Toby back out of the way. “What's his name?” he asked.

“Will,” said Toby, stepping back just far enough to allow Watson to work but no further. “He was stabbed in the side.”

Watson nodded distractedly. “Will, it's going to be all right. I'm a doctor. Can you hear me?”

The injured man nodded with a jerky motion. “You're a doc,” he repeated between pants of air. “You're gonna fix me up.”

“I'm going to try,” corrected Watson. Until he'd seen what he was dealing with, he wasn't making any promises. “I'm going to need warm water and clean cloths,” he said.

“Already got them,” said Toby, gesturing at the bedside table where a bowl and some white towels rested.

“Excellent,” said Watson. He washed his hands thoroughly, then started to carefully remove the layers of slapdash bandaging that covered the wound. It was soaked with rather more blood than he liked and when he got down to the stabwound itself, he almost winced.“Will, this may cause you some discomfort.”

“I don't think you can do much worse than the bloke who stuck me,” grunted out Will.

“You save your breath,” said Toby roughly. “Anything I can do to help, Doctor?”

“Just hand me what I ask for, when I ask for it,” said Watson and he started on cleaning out the wound.

Will bore up well under the pain, moving about a lot less than most of Watson's patients. Once he'd cleared away the blood and other liquids that had been seeping from the wound, he found the root cause of the problem. Part of the blade that had caused the injury had broken off against a rib, and was now lodged deep inside the wound.

Watson sat back on his heels. Toby was whispering something close to Will's ear, one hand resting on his shoulder, and Watson waited until he was finished before speaking. “Part of the knife is still inside,” he said. “I'm going to have to remove it, or the whole thing will become infected.”

Toby nodded seriously. “Right, doc,” he said and his hand tightened on Will's shoulder.

“I'll give him something for the pain first,” said Watson, opening up the bag that Murray had 'procured' and rummaging through it. It was not quite as well-stocked as Watson would have liked, but it held the essentials that he would need.

He filled a syringe with morphine and pushed up Will's shirt sleeve.

“That's not going to kill him, is it?” asked Murray suspiciously.

Watson glared at him. “You may be more accustomed to dealing with rogues and scoundrels, but some of us are men of our word. I won't harm a patient.”

“Leave him be, Murray,” said Toby. “Just let him get on with it.”

Murray glared at both of them but said nothing further as Watson injected the morphine into Will's arm. Will let out a quiet breath and relaxed moments later, and Toby's own shoulders seemed to lose some of their tension. Watson wondered if the two were related in some way, or whether their rough life had formed the close bond between them, in the same way that the many cases they'd been on had formed a similar bond between him and Holmes.

“I'm going to need you to hold him very still,” Watson told Toby as he prepared his equipment.

“Right,” said Toby. He settled on the bed next to Will and took a firm hold of him. “You just stay right there, Will,” he said. “Don't worry about a thing – I'm going to make sure he takes good care of you.”

“Isn't it my turn to take care of you today?” asked Will in a weak voice, managing a faint smile.

Toby squeezed his shoulders. “You can have two days next time,” he said. “Hell, pull through this and you can have a whole bloody week.”

“I'll hold you to that,” replied Will.

Removing the knife shard was easier than Watson had anticipated, but by no means simple. Will passed out halfway through the procedure, making his job much easier, and then it was just a case of grasping the shard firmly with his forceps and hoping that when it came out, Will's lifeblood wouldn't follow.

Luckily, it didn't seem to have nicked any vital arteries, and Watson was able to close up the wound and redress it with a more professional bandage than Will had before. Toby stayed close throughout the entire affair, immediately helping with anything Watson asked of him and keeping one hand resting on Will's shoulder whenever he was not required.

When Watson had finished and had turned away to wash his hands, Toby bent low over Will's unconscious face and said in a quiet voice that Watson was sure he wasn't meant to overhear, “I told you not to worry. You're going to pull through.” His voice burned with conviction, as if he could make it true if he just believed strongly enough, and he completed the statement with a soft kiss pressed against Will's forehead, and then another against his lips.

Watson started, shocked. These men were lovers?

“I'm afraid it comes as a revelation only to you,” said a quiet voice behind him, cutting into Watson's thoughts so accurately that for a moment he thought it must be Holmes. He turned to see Moriarty instead, who must have silently entered at some time while Watson was concentrating on his patient.

Toby straightened up at his voice. “Professor,” he said with respect. “Thank you.”

“It seemed foolish to have a doctor and a sick man in the same building and not put them together,” said Moriarty. “What is your report, Doctor?”

Watson shook off his momentary confusion and looked back down at Will. _Treat the patient in front of you,_ he thought, _worry about criminals later._ “He should be fine,” he said. “Hopefully we've managed to avoid infection, but I can't guarantee it. He's going to need bedrest and constant care for a good few days, though.”

“I'll care for him,” said Toby immediately.

“Can he be moved?” asked Moriarty. “I have another place that would suit them better and to which it would be possible to call a normal doctor without endangering my organisation.”

Watson rested his hand briefly on Will's forehead, then felt his pulse. A short journey in a few hours would probably be no danger. “How far is it?”

“Maybe twenty minutes by cab,” replied Moriarty.

Watson nodded slowly. “I'd like to keep an eye on him until at least five, but if he's still in this condition then, I should think he'd not suffer for it.”

Moriarty glanced at his pocket watch and nodded. “I shall call the cab for five thirty, then,” he said. “Excellent. I shall see you at dinner, Doctor.”

He left as silently as he'd arrived, and Watson turned back to his patient. The next few hours would tell whether or not he had to worry about an infection.

Murray brought in a chair from one of the other rooms nearby and slumped on it, eyes fixed firmly on Watson as he tended to his patient as if just waiting for the moment he'd try and escape. Watson made Toby bring himself a chair when it became clear that he'd spent most of the night awake, worrying over Will's condition. He did his best to treat him like any other worried next-of-kin, deciding not to dwell on the revelation of the men's true relationship.

He could remember Holmes being thrown out of his own hospital room where a spouse would have been allowed to stay because, after all, he was only Watson's flatmate, and the aggrieved, affronted look Holmes had given him before being chivvied away. He wasn't meant to be thinking of Holmes in that light, he reminded himself. It might be fine for Toby and Will, two criminals surrounded by men like Moriarty whose moral compasses were already past repair, to admit to a deviant relationship, but two gentlemen such as him and Holmes would never be able to live like that. Even if the law wasn't as it was, no decent folk would ever associate with them and both their livelihoods would be ruined.

Will slept for most of the afternoon but when he did wake up he seemed coherent. Watson had little hesitation in authorising him to be moved when five thirty arrived and even helped Toby move him down the stairs until they reached the landing of the first floor. There they helped Will into a chair to take a breather and Murray told them abruptly that Watson was not allowed to descend all the way to the ground floor.

“Professor wants him in the dining room,” he said.

“And his word must be obeyed,” said Watson wearily. Murray glared at him.

“Professor always knows what's best,” said Toby. “He sent you to Will, didn't he?”

Watson tried not to look too sceptical, and changed the subject by running through his instructions for Will's continued care again.

Toby nodded. “Got it,” he said. He held out his hand to Watson. “Thank you, doctor, for all your help. I won't forget this. You ever need help with anything, you just come find one of us and we'll sort you out.”

Watson shook his hand. “Well, I could do with a rescue,” he said dryly.

Toby laughed. “That'd get us all matching resting places at the bottom of the river,” he said. “Anyway, I bet it'll all turn out right in the end – Professor knows best,” he repeated.

“Come on,” said Murray impatiently. “Enough blabber.”

Watson left the two men at the top of the stairs, and when he glanced back Toby was on his knees in front of Will, one hand on his knee, saying something that was making Will smile at him as if he was the whole world.

 

****

 

Moriarty was waiting for Watson in the dining room, and a dinner of cold meats was set out on the table. Watson frowned.

“Little early, isn't it?”

“Something has come up,” said Moriarty. “We're dining early so that I can attend to it.”

“Another chance to get one of your men stabbed?” asked Watson, taking his seat.

Moriarty scowled at him. “A raid such as that one always carries the risk of collateral damage,” he said.

“Collateral damage,” repeated Watson, taking his share of the cold cuts. It might be early for dinner, but that didn't mean he wasn't hungry. Lunch had been the briefest bite, brought to him by Murray whilst he continued his care of Will. “I'm sure Will would be charmed to be described in such a way. Toby too,” he added, thinking of how protective he'd been.

“They both know the nature of the business we're in,” said Moriarty shortly, then relaxed a little, as if reminding himself to be friendly, and smiled. “Both the risks of it, and the benefits. Do you think there is any legal business organisation they could belong to that wouldn't force them into a life of guilt and secrecy merely for loving each other?”

It was close enough to what Watson had been thinking earlier that he felt a sense of deja vu. “You expect me to believe that a criminal gang is the pinnacle of tolerance?” he asked. “No one judges them in the same way that almost any other member of our society would?”

“It would be hypocritical of them,” said Moriarty with an amused smile. “The vast majority of my men are inverts as well. Why do you think Murray holds such an antagonism towards you? His lover was assisting with the smuggling operation that you and your detective put so spectacularly out of business.”

Watson stared at him for a long moment, his dinner momentarily forgotten. “Your organisation is built on a shared love of buggery?” he asked, his mind reeling.

“That's a crude way to put it,” replied Moriarty, “but yes, essentially. Surely it's not entirely surprising that it has panned out so. If you tell a man that his very nature is criminal, why should he hesitate to break other laws as well? He's already been condemned by society, after all.” He took a careful sip of his wine. “I must confess I have encouraged it. You have heard of the Sacred Band, I suppose? The Theban troop that was entirely made up of pairs of lovers, because a man will fight twice as hard next to his lover, both to protect and impress him.”

“You're comparing theft and smuggling to the Sacred Band?” asked Watson. He took an over-large sip of wine to steady his nerves enough to continue this conversation in a calm and rational manner. “I rather think the Thebans would be offended.”

“They were all killed over two thousand years ago,” said Moriarty wryly. “I'm sure they'll cope with the comparison. Besides, the concept is sound regardless of what it is applied to. Toby killed not only the man who injured Will, but also the two men who were with him. You think he'd have felt as motivated for a mere comrade?”

“Murder is not something I hold as a positive outcome,” said Watson shortly.

Moriarty sighed. “They would only have murdered both of them if he had not acted,” he said. “Nevertheless, I shall use a different example. Holmes has spent the last day ignoring all cases and contemplating turning to a life of crime. Do you think I could have caused that change in him with anything less than a threat to you?”

Watson clenched his jaw and looked down at his plate. “That doesn't have any relevance to the conversation,” he said tightly. “I am not Holmes's lover, so it is merely the bonds of friendship that you have been manipulating.”

Moriarty regarded him for a long time with a cocked head. “You may have avoided the physical act in deference to the strictures of society,” he said eventually, “but that does not mean that the affections involved are any different.”

Watson flushed red. “I account that a great insult,” he said stiffly. “Both to myself and Holmes. Neither of us have any interest in that kind of sexual deviancy.”

Moriarty half-laughed. “You forget,” he said. “I have spent a great deal of time around such men, and I have also had the opportunity to observe the two of you together. You both most definitely have such an interest.”

Watson put his cutlery down and pushed his chair back with enough force to scrape the floor. “You are wrong,” he said angrily, standing up. “I would prefer to return to my room rather than listen to another word of this slander.”

“I'm afraid that will not be possible,” said Moriarty. “Sit down, Doctor.” He set his own cutlery down and nodded at Murray, who left the room briefly.

“I will not be insulted like this,” said Watson, not moving.

Moriarty smiled coldly. “You're my prisoner,” he reminded him. “You have very little choice in the matter.” Murray re-entered the room, carrying a syringe.

Watson frowned. “What's going on?” he asked.

Moriarty stood up. “Something has occurred that necessitates moving you to a new location,” he said. “Naturally the easiest way to accomplish that is with you unconscious.”

Holmes. It had to be – he'd found some clue as to where Watson was and Moriarty was moving him before he could be rescued. He backed away from Murray and the syringe. “I'm not letting you inject me,” he said.

Moriarty sighed long-sufferingly. “You have no choice,” he repeated. “It's an injection, or I allow Murray to knock you unconscious. I really would prefer to avoid that.”

“I wouldn't,” said Murray, grinning.

Watson glanced at him, then at the needle. He really was very tired of feeling trapped, of having to do everything Moriarty demanded of him without any chance to fight back, but it seemed unlikely that Moriarty would have sat through dinner if there was any danger of Holmes getting here soon. Any delay that Watson caused by being obstinate wasn't going to end with Holmes bursting in with the police, however much Watson wanted it to.

“Do the sensible thing,”said Moriarty as if he was talking to a small child who had to be cajoled into having a bath.

It was the final straw. Watson had endured enough of being talked down to and led around, and he was damned if he was going to just stand here and let them drug him up. He took a careful step forward, as if preparing to give in, then snatched up the chair he had been sitting on and threw it at Murray's head.

Murray ducked to avoid it, and Watson kicked hard at his legs while he was distracted, then followed up swiftly with a punch to the face that sent him flying backwards.

“Is this really necessary?” asked Moriarty tiredly, then called out to his man in the corridor. “Patrick!”

Patrick came barrelling in a second later, just as Murray started to recover. Watson ducked under a fist and threw himself at them both, but a swift kick to his injured leg made it buckle under him before he could cause any real damage. He crumpled down, still fighting desperately, and Patrick hit the back of his head with something hard that sent shining lights sparking across his vision. While he was trying to shake it off, they trapped his arm down against the carpet, and a second later there came the bite of the needle in his vein.

“Settle down, or you'll rip a hole in your skin,” said Moriarty.

Watson glared at him with hatred as the drug flooded into his bloodstream and darkness came down like a shutter over his eyes.

“Did you really have to hit him so hard?” was the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness.

 

****

  


****

 

The majority of the windows of the house were dark. Holmes had been watching for a good hour, noting the movements within and attempting to build up some picture of how many were inside. It seemed rather emptier than it could have been, and certainly the grounds of the house were guarded by only a couple of men, both of whom seemed too bored by their task to really be effective at it.

Holmes crept over the wall and through the shadows to the house. He carefully circled around it, testing windows and doors as he went until he found one that had been secured by only the flimsiest of locks. It was the work of a moment to pick it, then he crept inside, feeling his pulse beating in his throat. He was getting closer to Watson – it would only be a matter of minutes before he was with him again, and able to make sure that nothing like this ever befell him again.

He navigated silently through the house, keeping an ear open for the sound of any others, but the place seemed to be deserted. He wondered if Moriarty really was that over-confident about the secrecy of this location and the power of his threat over Holmes, or if his men were merely elsewhere.

He found the main stairs and hesitated for a moment. Watson was unlikely to be on the ground floor, or on the one above – escape through a window would be far too easy. He was likely to be either on one of the top levels, or somewhere in the basement. After a moment's thought, he headed up. Basements were such a cliché, and Moriarty did like to think of himself as above the common herd.

He bypassed the first floor and climbed straight to the second, where he started going through the rooms as quickly and quietly as he could. There was still no sign of life anywhere and he began to feel a vague disquiet about it, but he was too busy concentrating on finding Watson to pay attention to it. Later he would realise that his myopia had been a mistake.

The room was obvious when he found it. Even if it hadn't shown all the classic signs of having been used as a temporary prison, there was a newspaper lying on the desk, the crossword showing the distinct lines of Watson's handwriting. Holmes glanced behind him at the empty corridor, then darted inside to examine it. The first three clues had been filled in, then the paper had been thrown down – Watson had been restless, then. Bored, possibly. That was a good sign – a man who had been hurt would not be doing crosswords.

Which brought Holmes to the most obvious and troubling fact about the room. It was empty. Watson had been kept in this room for two days, but he was not here now. The emptiness of the rest of the house came back to him and he silently cursed. They'd moved him before Holmes could arrive. A sensation of burning cold ran through his chest and pooled in his stomach. He took a deep breath, resolutely ignoring it. This was not an occasion on which to indulge in emotional reactions.

He set about going over the room as thoroughly he could. Watson's condition here had been reasonably comfortable, at least. There was no sign of ill treatment or deprivation, although Holmes could tell that Watson's emotional state was depressed from more than just the abandoned crossword. For an active man like Watson, being confined to a small room for protracted periods of time counted as a form of torture all on its own.

He went over the bedsheets, noting the signs that Watson's sleep had been less than easy and allowing himself to indulge in his scent where it still clung to them when he found the handful of scrawled letters on the wall.

_JHW 31st March 1889, missing home._

Holmes traced his fingertips over them, something uncomfortable lodging in his throat as he thought of Watson, lying here alone and miserable and writing a message for him that there was only a very slim chance he would ever read. _Missing home_. Home missed him, too. Baker Street just wasn't the same without Watson.

There was a footstep in the doorway, loud enough to have been deliberate, and Holmes whirled around, standing up.

“He left graffiti for you. How touching,” said the man in the doorway with a smirk. Standing behind him was a thug with a gun and Mr. White.

Holmes cast his eye over the man. “Professor Moriarty,” he concluded.

“Sherlock Holmes,” returned Moriarty. “I was under the impression that you had been asked to stay at home.”

“I'm afraid I'm not particularly accomplished at following orders,” said Holmes. With the gun on him, there was nothing he could do but stand impotently where he was and hope that Moriarty wouldn't chose to end this game with a bullet.

“That is a great shame,” said Moriarty. “Mostly for Doctor Watson. After all, we had a deal.”

Holmes gritted his teeth. “Don't you dare harm him,” he said.

Moriarty laughed. “I will _dare_ whatever I like, Mr. Holmes. You should not forget who has the upper hand in this. If I choose to lavish upon the Doctor my irritation at having to abandon this house and move the centre of my operations elsewhere, there is nothing at all you can do about it.”

Holmes took a step forwards without intending to, his hands clenching into fists. The thug raised the gun slightly as a silent threat and Holmes stopped moving. “What do you want from me?” he asked with frustration. “You cannot have seriously thought that I would not do everything I could to track Watson down.”

“I had thought he meant a great deal to you,” said Moriarty. “If his safety is not enough to keep you out of commission then perhaps he is not worth as much to me as I thought.”

“Then perhaps you should release him,” suggested Holmes.

“I would be more likely just to dispose of him,” said Moriarty, as casually as if he was talking about throwing away an old pair of gloves, and not killing a human being.

“Don't,” said Holmes sharply, with more desperation than he was comfortable letting show.

“Ah, so he is worth something then,” said Moriarty.

 _He's worth everything_ , thought Holmes. “He is,” was all he allowed himself to say out loud.

“Then I shall reconsider the merits of keeping him alive,” said Moriarty. “Perhaps we should renegotiate. There is still a place in my organisation open to you.”

“He would never forgive me if I became a criminal in order to protect him,” said Holmes.

“But what would you not forgive yourself?” asked Moriarty. “Besides, he may well be part of my organisation before you at the rate he's going. He has already completed one commission for me.”

Holmes put every morsel of hatred that he felt towards the man for attempting to subvert Watson's good character into his glare. “Attending to a wounded man is hardly the same as joining your gang,” he said. “He's a doctor, after all. He took an oath.”

“Indeed,” acknowledged Moriarty. “Honest men are so easy to manipulate, don't you think? Having a doctor on staff is likely to be extremely useful, and once he's in the habit of helping with my men's well-being, what else might he be persuaded to aid me with?”

“He's a good man,” said Holmes with force. “He's far too intelligent to fall for that.”

“Is he?” asked Moriarty lightly, with a small smile that said he knew better. “Well, perhaps. We shall see.”

Mr. White glanced down at his pocket watch, then touched Moriarty's arm. “Professor,” he said.

Moriarty nodded. “I'm afraid I must be off,” he said. “Things to do, I'm sure you understand. Your interference today has caused a lot of bother for me that I intend to deal with tonight, so that I might breakfast with Doctor Watson tomorrow morning.”

That felt like a blow to Holmes's stomach. The idea that this man should be eating with Watson tomorrow morning instead of Holmes was as painful as any injury Holmes had ever received.

“And, of course,” added Moriarty, “I shall have to decide what punishment your disobedience warrants.”

“Don't hurt him,” said Holmes, then wished he could have sounded less like he was pleading.

Moriarty smiled. “I shall send you my revised offer for his safety tomorrow,” he said. “Until then, I suggest you keep out of my affairs.” He stepped back, out of the doorway. “And to that end, I shall leave you here, where you can contemplate your position without distractions, and avoid the temptation to follow us.”

Mr. White started to pull the door shut and Holmes stepped forward again. “You won't get away with this,” he said, which was possibly one of the most useless phrases in the English language. He felt so impotent and trapped, and he hated it. It was a feeling for lesser men.

“I suspect I will,” said Moriarty merrily. “Don't worry, I'm sure this room won't be able to hold you for long. Doctor Watson's stories have painted you as a very resourceful man, after all.”

The door was shut and a moment later the lock clicked shut. Holmes cursed loudly, then turned and kicked the desk chair, sending it clattering to the ground. This evening could not have been more of a fiasco if he had set out deliberately to fail.

It took him less than quarter of an hour to locate something in the room with which to pick the lock, and then to pick it. By the time he'd made it outside the house, Moriarty and his men were long gone. Holmes stood for a long handful of moments in the street, looking up at the house and trying to think past the hollow sense that he had caused Watson harm with his actions, then gave up and went back to Baker Street. There was nothing else for him to do.

Once there, he strode in past Mrs. Hudson without a word, although his expression no doubt gave away all that had happened.

“Oh dear,” she said, rather pathetically, and then, “I'll send up a hot toddy.”

“No need,” said Holmes, already halfway up the stairs. “No interruptions for the rest of the night, please.”

He shut the door behind him over whatever her reply was, and stood for a long moment, staring at the room. Too much in it reminded him of Watson. The only thing his mind contained was images of Moriarty hurting Watson, cutting him and beating him and god only knew what else, and all because of Holmes. It was unbearable.

He took a deep breath and berated himself for non-constructive thinking. Watson was likely bearing far worse, after all, and Holmes was his only chance to avoid more of the same. He just had to focus his mind and think, really think. If ever he needed to use his brain to its full potential, now was that time.

 

****

 

The morning dawned with too much bright light, far too early. Holmes was lying on the hearthrug, staring blankly at the fire-guard as he tried to pin down a single thought amongst the whirl in his mind. Despite a night of thinking, he had no new insights or ideas about the situation, and all that he could focus on was that, at some stage in the next few hours, Watson was apparently going to be breakfasting with Moriarty, while all Holmes had to look forward to was a repeat of Moriarty's blackmail, and no idea how to avoid giving in to it.

He let his eyes slide shut against the sunshine. What was he to do? He couldn't recall ever being in such a desperate and bleakly hopeless situation.

It was another few hours, but still very early, when Holmes heard the distant sounds of the front door being knocked on and then answered. There was the hum of low voices, and then footsteps travelling up the stairs towards him. He lay as he was, not twitching a muscle. What was the point in rousing himself? There was no one and nothing worth being alert for.

There was a tap on the door, and then Mrs. Hudson's voice. “Mr. Holmes? There's a visitor here for you.”

A visitor. There was a high chance that it was Mr. White, or some other associate of Moriarty's, sent to extract all he could from Holmes.

“It's Detective Inspector Lestrade,” added Mrs. Hudson. “He seems very eager to speak with you.”

Holmes let out a groan. Lestrade – that was all he needed. “Send him away,” he said. “I'm incapacitated.”

There was a hesitation and then Mrs. Hudson's footsteps went back down the stairs. There was the hum of voices again, and Holmes waited for the slam of the front door, so that he could fall back into his reverie, undisturbed. Instead, there was a terse exclamation, followed by swift footsteps up the stairs and a raised voice from Mrs. Hudson. Holmes winced, and braced himself. Trust Lestrade to choose today to find some spirit.

The door was opened with rather more energy than Holmes could cope with.

“Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade's exasperated, and exasperating, voice. Holmes didn't move. He'd said he was incapacitated, after all. Lestrade would just have to deal with him as he was.

Lestrade strode into the room and stood over him. “Good Lord,” he said in a faint voice. “What have you done to yourself?”

It was close enough to the sentiments that Watson had expressed on certain other occasions, largely involving his needle, that Holmes had to shut his eyes to block out the emotional backlash.

“I would be grateful if you would get up,” said Lestrade. “I need to talk to you.”

“As I'm sure Mrs. Hudson told you,” said Holmes, “I'm currently incapacitated. Do feel free to come back next week. Or next month.”

“That would be far too late,” said Lestrade. “Is Doctor Watson at home?”

Holmes felt his teeth grind together. “He is in the country,” he said.

“Ah,” said Lestrade, as if that explained everything. Holmes had to open his eyes again in order to glare at him.

It was most dispiriting when Lestrade ignored the glare in favour of taking a seat. “Well, if you won't stand up, then I shall have to speak to you where you are.”

“You may speak at me,” allowed Holmes. “I cannot guarantee I shall respond.” He was starting to worry that Moriarty's men had seen Lestrade's arrival and were counting the minutes that he was inside, wondering what Holmes might be speaking of with a Scotland Yard Inspector.

“That'll have to do me, I suppose,” said Lestrade with a heavy-felt sigh. “Although I suspect what I say will be of interest to you. There has been a sharp increase in crime over the last two or three days.”

Holmes had guessed as much as that. No doubt Moriarty was trying to make use of Holmes's suspension of business as thoroughly as possible.

“I'm not interested,” he said.

“No?” asked Lestrade. “It's not petty crime, any of it. It's all organised stuff – complicated burglaries, sudden increases in the amount and range of counterfeited coin, even the kidnap of the Earl of Coventry's niece.”

“She'll have eloped,” said Holmes automatically, and then frowned to himself. He wasn't meant to be helping the police, no matter how obvious the matter was.

“Possibly,” allowed Lestrade. “The Earl is insistent we investigate, however. We need your help, Holmes – all these crimes at once. There must be a connection, and surely you are the only one capable of spotting it?”

Well, that much was true, and well done to Lestrade for attempting to cajole him with flattery. Still, there was nothing to be done. “I'm not interested,” he said again.

Lestrade frowned. “Not at all?” he asked. “Two nights ago there was an attack on a pub that is widely known to be the headquarters of the Tanner gang. Five men are dead, another four are injured, and no one is talking. It had all the hallmarks of a rival gang trying to wipe out competition, but on a far grander scale.”

So, Moriarty was removing his competition as well as expanding his operations. Holmes wondered how close he was to becoming the epicentre of London crime and felt a surge of impotent rage rise up in him that had to be choked off before Lestrade could catch sight of it.

“I believe I have made myself clear on this subject,” he said. “Feel free to leave whenever you like.”

Lestrade let out a long sigh. “I suppose I shall have to,” he said, standing up. “You're doing us no favours by going on strike now, though. And yourself neither – I always find myself feeling better just to be out and doing something.”

“I am perfectly content here,” said Holmes, wishing more than anything that he could leap up and bring Moriarty's crime spree to an abrupt end.

“Indeed,” said Lestrade. “Well, you know how to find me if you change your mind. Good bye, Mr. Holmes.”

“Good bye,” said Holmes. “I dare say you shan't hear from me.”

Lestrade made an irritated noise and left, finally, and Holmes scowled at the ceiling. If Lestrade's visit had any negative consequences for Watson, then he'd- Well. He'd do nothing, just as he had been doing. Hopefully the no doubt black look on Lestrade's face as he left would make it clear to any watchers that he had gained nothing from his visit.

Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying the post. “The Inspector has gone,” she reported. “I'm terribly sorry to have let him up, he just pushed straight past.”

Holmes sat up and held his hand out for the post. “Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I can't expect you to hold the door against the full force of the Metropolitan police.”

He took the bundle of letters and immediately started flicking through it, looking for today's missive from Moriarty and casting all the rest of it to one side.

It was a packet rather than a letter today, and Holmes felt a sick dread form in his stomach. “Could you bring up some tea, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked. It was likely she should not be a witness to whatever Moriarty had chosen to send him in retribution for his actions last night.

“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson, sounding over-joyed that Holmes had asked for something that approached sustenance, and bustled off.

Holmes turned the packet over, noting the postmark without much hope that it would give any clue, and then opened it. Inside was a note and a bundle of cloth.

_Warrant Issued For The Arrest Of General Boulanger_

_very sincerely yours,  
John Watson_ read the note in Watson's handwriting, but the postscript was in another hand.

_I did warn you, and I'm afraid I always hold true to my word. A cab will arrive for you at 12. I strongly suggest you get in it, unless you want a similar parcel tomorrow morning._

The cloth was stained with dried blood, but Holmes was able to recognise it as he unwrapped it. The monogram of JHW was hardly needed – Holmes was certain that he'd recognise every piece of Watson's wardrobe, including his handkerchiefs.

Inside the bundle was a horror that Holmes was not adequately prepared for. It was a finger. The ring finger from the left hand of a man who spent several hours a day writing, cut off rather sloppily at the knuckle. It had been broken and bruised heavily not long before that, most likely with a hammer.

Holmes had to swallow down an unexpected rise of nausea at the thought of Watson's hand being smashed and then mutilated. He had beautiful hands – surgeon's hands, but ones that were equally adept at wielding a gun or writing an overly-romanticised account of one of Holmes's cases. When Holmes played the violin for him, he clasped them in his lap as if perfectly content to sit there as an audience forever, no thoughts of doing anything else in his mind. And now one of them was ruined.

Holmes set the finger back down with a shaking hand as a surge of furious, impotent rage ran through him. How dare Moriarty hurt Watson like that? How dare he disfigure something so exceptional? A moment later, the anger turned on himself – he should have been able to prevent this, if he was even half the man that Watson's stories made him out to be – and then to despair. He was no closer to rescuing Watson than he had been the day he was taken, and how could he continue to refuse Moriarty anything if something this horrific was the consequence?

 

****

  


****

 

Watson felt terrible when he woke up. He had barely opened his eyes before he was obliged to empty his stomach, leaning over the side of the bed he'd been placed on. He collapsed back once he'd lost everything he'd had for dinner, trying to force his stomach to settle with sheer willpower. His head injury and the drug he had been given had combined to make him considerably unwell and he cursed both Moriarty and Murray.

“There you are,” said a familiar voice, and Watson finally took in enough of his surroundings to realise that he was in what appeared to be a basement room, and that Toby was standing by his bed.

“Good evening,” he managed, pulling himself upright against the wishes of his stomach. Both the movement and the effort of speaking caused a chain reaction that left him desperately hoping he wouldn't be sick again.

“It's morning now,” said Toby. “You've been out all night.”

If they had injected Watson with enough drug to keep him unconscious that long, that would more than explain the nausea. Watson's system had never reacted particularly well to too much of certain sedatives.

“I'll just get something to clear that up,” said Toby, looking down at the mess Watson had made. He crossed to a heavy-looking door and opened it to have a brief conversation with whomever was outside.

Will was lying on a bed on the opposite side of the room to Watson's. Watson nodded at him in greeting, but didn't risk any more words just yet.

“You look worse than I feel,” said Will. Watson was able to see that the colour in his face was good, and that his health was clearly improving, and managed a spark of professional pride that his care had resulted in a turn around of his condition.

Toby came back from the door. “They're bringing a bucket,” he said. He eyed Watson with a worried look that made Watson wonder just how appalling he looked. “Could you manage some water?”

Watson thought about that for a moment, but the very idea of introducing anything to his stomach made bile rise up in his throat. “Not just yet,” he said.

“Right you are,” said Toby. “It's here when you want it.”

Watson allowed himself a few minutes of deep, careful breaths, during which time a bucket of water and a cloth arrived, which Toby put to good use on the floor.

“I wasn't expecting to see you two again so soon,” said Watson, once he thought he might be able to handle a conversation without embarrassing himself again.

“Us neither,” said Toby. “Bit of a surprise when they brought you in last night. The Professor explained that he needed somewhere safe to put you, and this is as good as anywhere.”

“Where is it?” asked Watson, looking around at the whitewashed stone walls. There were muffled noises coming from somewhere upstairs, as if people were moving around.

“Can't tell you that,” said Toby, sounding apologetic.

Watson let out a sigh. “Of course,” he said wearily. He didn't think he was wrong in thinking that he could detect sympathy for him from Toby, which could only be to his advantage. Something to be cultivated, certainly. “Well, let us confine the conversation to safer topics, then. How are you holding up?” He directed the last statement at Will, but it was Toby who answered.

“Oh, he's doing bravely,” he said, giving his lover a smile. “Your treatment sorted him out proper.”

“Well, when I can move without risk of creating a further mess,” said Watson, “I shall take a look at his stitching.”

Toby looked back at Watson with raised eyebrows. “You still feel that bad?” he asked.

Watson made no attempt to hide his internal misery from him. “I suspect that Murray was rather heavy-handed with the drug,” he said. “I have always been peculiarly susceptible to these things.”

Toby made no response to that, but Watson thought he could see sympathy in his look. The next half hour was spent in silence as Watson lay back and slowly recovered himself, and Toby finished with the floor. He gave the bucket and cloth back to whoever was outside – a guard, Watson surmised. His situation here was no better than it had been before – in fact, it might even be worse. For all that one was injured and the other sympathetic, he was now in the constant presence of two of Moriarty's men, and there was at least one more outside the door. Escape was still an impossibility.

 

****

 

Moriarty came into the room a few minutes after Watson felt well enough to drink some water. He greeted Watson with a smile and a 'good morning' that showed no hint that last night he'd had Watson beaten, restrained and drugged. Watson glared at him with as much loathing as he could express with just his eyes.

“Don't be like that,” Moriarty said with mild reprove. “You must see that it was necessary.”

“Holmes has proved to be less tractable than you thought, then,” said Watson with satisfaction. Knowing that Holmes was actively looking for him and not cowed by Moriarty's blackmail was heartening, even if it did mean that they were both in more danger than otherwise. Well, Watson had never held back from danger.

Moriarty's smile turned sinister. “For the moment,” he said. “But I suspect I know how to bring him into line. First,” he held out a scrap of paper, a pen, and the day's newspaper.

Watson took them with a sigh, wondering how many more days would pass before he could communicate with Holmes through more than a copied out headline. He kept his handwriting as steady as possible, despite the lingering after-effects of the drug.

“Excellent, thank you,” said Moriarty, taking the papers back from him once he was done and glancing at the writing. “And this morning I shall also need to trouble you for a little more, in the interests of teaching Holmes not to work against me.”

Something in Watson's stomach turned cold at the look of anticipation on his face. Moriarty gestured at the door and Murray came in, carrying a knife. Watson's trepidation grew, tempered only slightly by pride at seeing the rather impressive bruise that he had caused on Murray's cheek.

“You see,” Moriarty said, “I promised Holmes that if he attempted to find you, I would take out my displeasure on your person.” He paused. “Do you have a handkerchief?” he asked.

Watson's eyes were on Murray's knife, but he glanced back at Moriarty at that apparent non-sequitur. “What?” he asked.

Moriarty looked impatient. “A handkerchief,” he repeated. “I should like to borrow it.”

Watson bit his tongue on the statement that surely Moriarty had far more clothing at his disposal right now than Watson did. He felt in his pocket to find that his handkerchief had miraculously managed to stay with him all this time and held it out without a word. There was no point in making a stand over a piece of cloth, although he did find it irritating to see such an item in Moriarty's hands. It was one of a set that Mrs. Hudson had given him for Christmas, all carefully monogrammed with his initials.

“Excellent,” said Moriarty. “And now, Murray, if you please.”

Murray stepped forward to the edge of the bed that Watson was seated on and took a rough grip on Watson's wrist. Watson immediately pulled his arm away and clenched his fist, wishing he had the strength to fight back properly. “You'll remember last time you tried to harm me,” he warned. “The outcome now will be the same, I promise you.”

Moriarty tutted. “Please don't make me have to hurt you more than I intend to,” he said. “I am already sparing you most of the punishment and passing it on to another, you know.”

“What do you mean?” asked Watson.

“In order to break Holmes out of the mindset that he can play games without incurring my wrath,” said Moriarty, “I need to give him a considerable shock. That requires me to be particularly brutal with you. I had intended to remove part of your body and send it to him, but I've found myself reluctant to disfigure you. It would be a shame to mar your looks.” The look he gave Watson at this point disturbed Watson almost as much as having part of himself cut off and sent to Holmes.

“Instead,” continued Moriarty, “you'll be relieved to hear that another man is going to pay the main body of the debt. His hands are similar enough to yours that, once it has been disguised with the aid of a hammer, I'm sure that Holmes will assume that his finger is yours, particularly once wrapped in this.” He held up the handkerchief.

Watson gritted his teeth against the idea of someone else being injured so badly at his expense. “If that's true,” he said, “then why does Murray have a knife?”

“I'm a man of my word,” said Moriarty. “I said I would hurt you if Holmes disobeyed, and so I will. Besides, Murray has a score to settle with you over last night's events.”

“I'm really going to enjoy it if you struggle now,” said Murray in a nasty voice, reaching for Watson's arm again.

In the end Watson was forced to let him take it, galling though it was. He still felt too weak to really be able to put up enough of a struggle for it to be worthwhile. Murray undid his cuff and pulled up his sleeve, exposing Watson's forearm. He gripped his wrist hard enough for Watson to feel his bones creak and set the point of the knife against his skin.

Watson could see the muscles in his arm standing out as tense, hard lines and he took a breath, trying to relax them. Murray slid the knife downwards with a slow, inextricable force, leaving a deep line that welled up with blood. The pain burned through the remnants of the drug in Watson's system and he sucked in a sudden breath through his nose, the only reaction he would allow himself.

“Very good,” said Moriarty in a hushed tone and Watson glanced up to see that his eyes were riveted on the wound, watching as blood started to drip down Watson's arm. He was frozen in place for a moment, then stepped forward, pushing Murray to one side and catching up Watson's arm himself. Watson felt disgust rise up in him at the touch of his fingers on his skin as Moriarty held the handkerchief against the cut, soaking up the blood.

“Lovely,” he said, still in the same tone, and Watson was unable to prevent a revolted noise forcing its way out of his mouth. Moriarty's gaze from the wound to Watson's face and whatever he saw there caused him amusement. He stepped away with the handkerchief held carefully, almost delicately in his hands.

“I'll leave you to tend to yourself, Doctor,” he said. “I was hoping to breakfast with you, but I'm afraid there really is too much to do be done today to allow for that. I shall see you later, though. Come on, Murray.”

Murray threw a sickly smirk at Watson as he left, the knife still in his hand and stained with Watson's blood. Watson glared at him and promised himself that one day soon, he would take retribution.

 

****

 

Watson was left in the room with Toby and Will for the rest of the morning. After he'd done the best that he could for his arm, he looked over Will's stitches and was pleased to see that he appeared to be healing well.

“See, I told you,” Will said to Toby after Watson declared this.

Toby let out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Can't blame me for worrying,” he said. “If anyone was going to be contrary enough to go and die after getting all fixed up, it would be you.”

Will reached out for his hand. “Wouldn't do that to you,” he said. There was a moment where they just looked at each other and Watson felt himself to be horribly in the way.

He moved back to his own bed and sat down, attempting to be discreet, but the bedsprings gave his movement away, and Toby shook his head and looked around.

“You're looking better, Doctor,” he said. “Much more colour in your face. Do you want some breakfast?”

Watson thought for a moment, analysing the condition of his stomach, which had much settled since he had woken. “Yes,” he said. “I think I could manage that now.”

Toby stood up, not letting go of Will's hand until he had to, and went to the door. This time he went out of it, shutting it behind him but not before Watson had seen Murray outside, leaning against a wall and glowering at Watson in the brief second their eyes met.

Watson sat back with a sigh, horribly weary of the whole thing. There was nothing he wanted more than to be able to go back to Baker Street and relax properly, without having to worry about what the criminals and madmen he was surrounded by might do next.

“I have to thank you,” said Will after a moment or two had passed.

Watson waved his words away. “No need,” he said. “I am a doctor, and I could hardly just leave you as you were.”

“Not for that,” said Will. “Well, that as well,” he corrected. “But for being so good about it. Toby, he worries, but he's all right if he can feel like he's doing something. You let him feel like that, let him be involved, and didn't raise an eyebrow. That was decent of you.”

“I did my eyebrow raising whilst you were still indisposed,” said Watson. “Besides, I find the criminal activities that resulted in your wound far more troubling than any others you might indulge in.”

Will shrugged that off. “Got to have a living,” he said. “Keeps us off the streets and together, and there's nothing proper that would do that.”

Watson reflected on that, wishing he could say it wasn't true, but his and Holmes's own situation proved that it was. Two gentleman bachelors, already living together, but too afraid of the consequences to cross the line they both longed to stride over for fear of society's reaction should they find out. Or, at least, Watson was too afraid. Holmes seemed perfectly prepared to take that risk but, then, he never did care much for what society thought of him.

Toby came back with a tray of tea and toast and the newspaper that Moriarty had earlier. “Professor's apologies,” he said cheerfully, handing it to Watson. “He said to say that he forgot you might want it, and here's a pen for the crossword.”

Watson took both with a distinct lack of grace, setting them to one side until he'd eaten enough to settle his stomach a little. Toby ate a bit as well, and then fed Will as much as he could before he began to look more than a bit peaky.

“Enough,” he said, pushing away the tea mug that Toby was waving at him. “I'm going to shut my eyes a bit.” He shuffled to lie down properly, and Toby set the mug down in order to help him.

“Stop fussing,” said Will tetchily.

Toby rolled his eyes. “Sooner you get better, the happier I'll be,” he said. “I'm not cut out for this nurse-maiding.”

Will snorted, settling his body into a position of repose. “Nurse maid. There's a get-up I never want to see you in.”

“I think I can promise you that one,” said Toby. He put the breakfast things back on the tray, and took them to the door, handing them to someone out there.

Watson settled back on the bed and picked up the newspaper with a sigh. Another boring day stretched ahead of him, yet more dull hours spent trapped inside a featureless room. He would give anything in that moment just to be able to go and take a walk outside, even if it was cold or raining. It was a sudden surprise to realise that he had little idea what the weather had been like since his capture. Usually one of his first acts in the morning was to gaze out of his window at the sky, partly to see what sort of outfit was going to be necessary for the day, and partly because he enjoyed seeing just how different that one section of the sky could look depending on the weather. He was not made for an indoor life, and was beginning to feel awfully shut-in and claustrophobic. He wondered just how much longer he'd have to put up with this captivity.

 

****

 

Moriarty came back at around lunch time, much to Watson's annoyance. However dull it might be to be trapped in what was, essentially, an infirmary, he infinitely preferred it to more of Moriarty's conversation.

“Lunch is being laid out for us,” he said. “Come and join me, Doctor.”

“I'm not particularly hungry,” said Watson, not moving.

Moriarty's smile turned brittle. “Then you can watch me eat. I desire your company, and I shall have it.”

Watson allowed his displeasure to show on his face as he stood up. Moriarty's eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should have taken your finger after all,” he said. “It might have taught you some manners.”

“Violence teaches nothing but violence,” said Watson. Moriarty left the room without deigning to reply, and Watson was forced to follow him outside to where Murray was waiting.

The corridor outside was constructed from the same whitewashed stone as the room had been and was far narrower than Watson had expected. His guess that they were in a basement was confirmed by the lack of windows and the generally dank atmosphere. At the far end a flight of rough steps headed up to a wooden door, behind which Watson could hear several voices in conversation. Moriarty headed in the opposite direction, to the only other door leading off the corridor. When Watson spent too long looking up at the way out, Murray coughed meaningfully and pulled a pistol out of his pocket.

Watson gave him a disdainful look and turned to follow Moriarty into a room that was decorated far better than the room Will and Toby were in. Wooden panelling had been attached to the walls, with a couple of paintings hung on it, and there was a large rug covering most of the floor. There was a large bed in the corner, partially hidden behind a velvet drape, and there was a table next to it that was laid with lunch.

“Please, sit,” said Moriarty with a gesture.

Watson sat in silence, determined to get through this meal with as little conversation as possible. He was growing extremely tired of this game Moriarty was playing and was in no mood to indulge him.

Moriarty sat opposite him and poured them both a glass of wine. “I saw your Holmes last night,” he said in a conversational tone. “I must say, he didn't look particularly well. The absence of his doctor appears to have had a negative effect on his health.”

Watson felt his hands clench into fists and forced himself to relax them. He desperately wanted to know everything about the encounter but there was no way he was going to beg Moriarty for details. “I daresay he'll recover easily enough once I'm back and you're locked up,” he said.

Moriarty laughed. “Ah, hope springs eternal,” he said. “I wonder how long it will be before you truly realise that you are never going home.”

“Never?” repeated Watson with horror.

“Ah, yes,” said Moriarty, starting to tuck in to the food on the table between them as if this was a casual conversation of no real importance. “That was what I wished to discuss with you. Holmes's actions last night have caused me to re-evaluate the situation. His word is not to be trusted, so rather than allow you your freedom should he agree to join my organisation, it seems that I will have to retain you as collateral. My associate is meeting with him now to advise him on the new situation.”

“But if he can have no hope of securing my freedom,” asked Watson, “why would he ever agree to work for you?”

“Because it is the only way he will ever see you again,” said Moriarty. “Rather than allow him to work for me as an outside contractor, retaining his living situation with you at Baker Street, I have decided that the only way to make certain that he keeps his word is to bring him in to the business fully. He'd be obliged to give up his lodgings and join us at my country residence, but once there he'd be able to see as much of you as he liked, as long as he carried out the occasional commission for me.”

“You think he'll give up his own freedom?” asked Watson incredulously. “He will never agree to that.”

Moriarty gave a shrug. “That is his decision,” he said. “We will be travelling down to my residence tomorrow. I have informed him that he has until the evening the day after to join us, but after then he will never hear anything of you again.”

Watson felt himself go cold. “You'll kill me,” he said, striving to keep his voice steady.

“Oh no,” said Moriarty, the faint smile he had worn for the entire conversation spreading into a wicked grin. “I have far more imaginative plans for you.” His eyes glanced over Watson's body and then flicked to the bed, and Watson blanched as he realised what he meant.

“I'd rather die,” he said as stoutly as he could.

Moriarty laughed. “Would you, though?” he said. “I have heard that before from other men who have later changed their minds. Besides, it is not your life that I would use as leverage. Have you never considered that if I wanted Holmes dead, it would be extremely simple for me to accomplish? If he decides to continue working against me, then you shall need to find some way to persuade me not to simply eradicate him.”

Watson felt a sickness in his stomach rise up and threaten to choke him. How could he even contemplate such a monstrous thing? And yet, how could he allow Holmes to come to harm?

“There's no need to worry about that just yet, though,” said Moriarty. “Holmes might yet join my organisation, in which case you would be his reward and left entirely unharmed.”

“You are the most despicable monster I have ever known,” said Watson with more fury than he had ever felt before. The fact that there was nothing he could do more than telling Moriarty precisely what he thought of him was horribly frustrating, but despite how much he wanted to be able to wipe the smile off Moriarty's face with his fists, he couldn't forget Murray's presence in the hall with his gun, or the things Moriarty might choose to do to him in retribution.

“Well, I will have many years to change your mind on that score,” said Moriarty. “Are you sure I can't tempt you to eat something?”

Watson spent the rest of the meal in a sickened daze. Moriarty gave up on further conversation and concentrated on his food, giving out an air of self-satisfaction that made Watson want to strangle him. Once he had finished, he carefully placed his cutlery down.

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you until tomorrow morning now,” he said. “There's just so much to organise at the moment, what with the expansion of my organisation and the move to the country. I shall see you at breakfast, though, when I hope you'll have more appetite.”

“It seems unlikely,” said Watson with a dry mouth. The leaden weight of dread in his stomach made him doubt that he'd ever really find food appealing again.

“We shall see,” said Moriarty.

He stood up and Watson moved to do the same, but Moriarty held up a hand. “Oh, don't worry about moving. You can stay in this room overnight – it's far more comfortable and less crowded. It's one of my personal rooms – like Holmes, I have several little hide-outs throughout the city, but I really don't mind you using it.” He smiled again. “In fact,” he added, “I rather like the idea of you sleeping in my bed.”

Watson's stomach turned over. Moriarty gestured at a trunk at the foot of the bed. “I had your things from the other house moved here,” he said. “I shall ask Murray to retrieve the newspaper for you. Can I do anything else to make your stay here more comfortable?”

“You could suffer a sudden, fatal heart attack,” suggested Watson.

 

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v95/flawedamythyst/LJ/?action=view&current=WatsonMoriarty.jpg)   


 

Moriarty laughed. “That would leave you in Murray's hands,” he said. “I'm not sure you'd enjoy that. I shall see you tomorrow then, my dear doctor.”

He left the room finally, leaving Watson to stare after him and hope that when it came time for the fiend to die, he would be there to see it and, hopefully, to participate.

Murray came in a couple of minutes later with the newspaper and cleared away the remains of lunch, then disappeared, locking the door behind him. Watson didn't acknowledge his presence at all, too locked in his own despair. How was he meant to spend an afternoon calmly reading the paper or doing the crossword when his future stretched out so bleakly before him? Either he was to be kept as a hostage to secure the complete downfall of the best man he'd ever known, forced to watch as Holmes became a henchman to his arch-enemy and to know that it was all his fault; or he was to be Moriarty's catamite for the rest of his days. He couldn't decide which would be worse – at least the second option meant that Holmes was free to bring Moriarty down, but how could Watson stomach such a situation?

He wondered if it might not be better if he died. If he killed himself now, there would be no note for Holmes the next morning, and he would know that something had happened, and not to give in to Moriarty's demands, and they would both be saved a lifetime of shame and degradation. He cast about the room wildly, and his eyes lit on the curtain by the bed. It would be an easy thing for him to hang himself from that.

The thought sickened him almost as much as Moriarty's threats had, though. He was not the kind of man who gave up that easily – Holmes might yet find a solution to this, and he would be most put out if Watson killed himself before he was able to enact it.

He held that thought firmly in his mind as the afternoon wore on. Holmes would find a way to rescue him and bring Moriarty down, and once he had, Watson would be there to tell him how brilliant his scheme had been, and to sit by the fire at Baker Street with him as he explained all. It was how all their cases ended, after all, and this one would be no different.

 

****

  


****

 

The cab arrived punctually at noon. Holmes was ready, waiting outside for it and he climbed inside without acknowledging the driver. They drove for ten or fifteen minutes before stopping to pick up Mr. White, but Holmes didn't bother tracking their journey. It was all he could do to keep his expression blank when all the images in his mind were of Watson, and the pain he must be in right now.

“Good day, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. White. “I'd ask how you are, but I'm afraid you don't look well at all.”

Holmes glared at him. “Get to the point,” he said through gritted teeth. “What does Moriarty have to say?”

“He wanted me to convey his deepest apologies for the harm that has been done to Doctor Watson. He deeply regrets that you made it necessary.”

Holmes made an impatient gesture. “I'm not interested in his regrets,” he said. “What does he want?”

“The circumstances have changed,” said Mr. White. “It has become clear that you are not a man of your word, and so cannot be trusted. The Professor's original proposal, that you work for him as an outside contractor and are able to enjoy both your own and the doctor's freedom in return for the occasional small service, is clearly inappropriate. Moreover, he is unwilling to let you take your time deciding and risk you attempting some other ill-conceived plan.”

He paused as if to gather his thoughts and Holmes felt as he was going to explode from impatience. “And so?” he demanded.

Mr. White gave him a reproving look, but continued. “The Professor is moving the Doctor to a new location, one which you will almost certainly never find. If you agree to join him there, where you would be expected to take an active role in the organisation and could be kept track of, then he will be left unharmed, albeit without his liberty, and you would be free to see him at any time you wished.”

So Moriarty wanted them both as his prisoners, with Watson as leverage to keep Holmes working for him. The thought of having his freedom curtailed whilst having to engage in the despicable work that Moriarty's organisation engaged in horrified Holmes almost as much as the idea of Watson being hurt.

“You have until this time tomorrow to decide,” said Mr. White. “We understand that you'll have arrangements to make before you leave – the last thing the Professor wants is the questions that would be attached to an unexplained disappearance. Take the time to inform your acquaintances that you are travelling to the continent and aren't sure when you'll be back, and to pack a few things – for both yourself and Doctor Watson. I'm sure there are things that he would want brought to him, and neither of you will be in a position to access Baker Street again after tomorrow.”

“And if I refuse?” asked Holmes, holding himself steady with every inch of willpower that he had.

“Then it will be obvious that Doctor Watson is not worth enough to you for us to continue this course of action. We wouldn't trouble you with any more information about his condition, and the Professor would solve the problem of your interference in his business in another way. I suggest that remaining in London would be bad for your health.”

“I'd hear nothing about Watson?” repeated Holmes, frowning. “Last time we spoke, you talked about leaving his body on my doorstep.”

“I did,” agreed Mr. White. “The Professor has changed his mind – he doesn't want Doctor Watson dead. He wants a whole variety of other things from him instead, most of which, I'm afraid, would be profoundly upsetting for the doctor. I should imagine he'll be alive for a good long time before the Professor eventually grows bored of him.”

For an endless moment, Holmes thought he was going to be physically ill. His fingers curled into fists and he thought, longingly, of being able to strike this wretched little man as he so richly deserved. That was likely to only cause further difficulties for Watson, however, and Holmes had already managed to cause him enough undeserved torment.

Mr. White gave him an extremely unpleasant smile, enjoying giving Holmes this information far too much. Holmes vividly pictured bashing his head in with his own walking stick. “Perhaps he'd come to enjoy it in time, though,” he continued. “I hear you can train men to almost anything.” He knocked on the ceiling of the cab with his stick, and they slowed. “I'm afraid I shall have to let you out here,” he said. “The cab will come for you at 2 tomorrow, should you agree to join us.”

Holmes left the carriage without another word. There was nothing to say but for frustrated threats he had no way to carry out, and opening his mouth would only allow some of his internal anguish to escape, which Mr. White would only enjoy. He was a short walk from Baker Street and he walked back in a daze, his brain unable yet to even contemplate the choices he had been given.

What could he do? There had to be some way out of this that did not end with either both Holmes and Watson dancing to Moriarty's tune, or Watson facing the worst kind of future, but Holmes's control over his emotions was completely shot. How could he think about this situation rationally when his imagination seemed to set on showing him images of Watson at Moriarty's mercy, with more than just his hand abused and bleeding?

 

****

 

The next hour passed in a black haze. Holmes crouched immobile in his seat, trying to see beyond the horror of the situation to any kind of solution but instead his mind kept circling back to the same images of Watson, and the absolute conviction that he could not allow them to ever be reality.

In the end, it took an enormous effort of willpower for him to begin to consider the state of affairs with any kind of calmness. He remained in his position for another hour, his mind tracking through all the twists and turns of the situation, searching for a loose thread by which he might unravel Moriarty's designs. He kept coming up against a blank wall caused by a lack of data, however, the kind of blank wall that he always found intensely infuriating.

Mr. White had said they were moving Watson to somewhere Holmes would be unable to find him. That had to mean somewhere outside of London – Holmes knew everything that happened in his city, and Moriarty was well aware of that. 'Outside London' was hardly a convenient area to search through, though. It seemed unlikely that Moriarty would risk moving Watson out of the country but, for all that Britain was a small country, it was more than large enough to hide a man in. If Watson was moved without Holmes having any idea where to find him, he would likely never be found.

Holmes's only chance, then, was to find some clue as to where or when Watson was being moved. If he still had no idea as to his location at the time the carriage arrived for him tomorrow afternoon, he would be forced to get into it. He couldn't leave Watson to suffer like that, and perhaps he would be able to see a way out once he had allowed Moriarty's trap to close around them.

He thrust the thought of how unlikely it was that Moriarty would leave any chink in such a trap, and stood up resolutely, ignoring the discomfort from his body after so long being still. He'd concentrate on getting to Watson either before or as he was being moved, and ignore how slim the chance was that he'd get any information in time. Moving a hostage like Watson such a distance would be a tricky business – he was a resourceful man and he would be looking for any chance to escape. An operation like that could not be kept completely secret. Someone would know about it.

He went to his room and put on the least reputable clothes he had. The best place to gather information about potential criminal activities was in any of a number of pubs down near the docks. He would start there, and see where it led him.

 

****

 

He overheard what he would usually count as a great deal of interesting information over the next few hours, but as none of it was directly related to Watson's whereabouts, he found it all to be of frustrating insignificance. What did he care that Moriarty was expanding his operations enormously and waging war on most of the rest of the organised criminal world in order to secure his ascendancy? Even the hints that he was looking to move beyond London and make his organisation an international one were of no interest when compared to the future that stood before Watson.

He was in his fifth pub of the day, hunched over a pint he had no intention of drinking and wondering if Watson even knew what Moriarty wanted from him, when his ears tuned themselves in to a muttered conversation being held near-by between four men who he knew to be part of a gang of housebreakers.

“It ain't right,” said one of them. “There's a balance, and the Professor's upsetting it. What's he think all this scrimmaging and killing is going to look like to the coppers?”

“They don't care what happens to folk like us,” said another. “Gammy Joe got shived this morning, along with three of his crew, and they done nothing.”

“Gammy Joe's dead?” asked one of the others with a scowl. “He owed me three shillings.”

“You ain't ever seeing that, nor anything else if the Professor carries on like this. We'll all be dead or working for him.”

The original speaker scowled. “I ain't working with his bloody mandrakes,” he said.

The door crashed of the pub crashed open and an excited-looking man strode in. “They've taken out Paddy,” he announced to the pub. “Shot him down right outside his front door.”

One of the housebreakers let out an angry growl of a noise and stood up. “We can't let this happen,” he said. “It's gonna be all of us if we don't move. You know what happened to the Tanner gang.”

“Move where?” asked one of his friends. “And do what when we get there? Get ourselves killed as well?”

“If we don't do something, we'll all be picked off. I know one of his houses, we should raise a gang and go show him we ain't scared of him, and that killing off your own don't end well.”

There was a general mutter of assents, and several more people in the pub stood up. “I'll go to the Four Crows and get Tommy Fogle,” said the man at the door. “He'll want in on this.” He disappeared again.

“Tangling with the Professor is only going to end with early graves,” insisted the nay-sayer.

“Are you yellow?” asked one of his friends with disgust. “Paddy was a mate of yours, and you're just going to let his death slide by?”

“I ain't yellow,” said the man, glowering. “I'll come along. I just don't want the Professor as my enemy.”

“Too late for that,” said the lead man. “He's the enemy of all the Family people. Coming in from outside and trying to take over. Let's teach him that we ain't going to take it lying down.”

Holmes followed them as they set off through the streets, gathering others at some of the pubs they passed along the way. He didn't intend to become embroiled in a brawl, but if they were headed to one of Moriarty's gang's meeting places, then who knew what clues he might get there?

The lead man led them to a shabby-looking pub that was hidden in the back streets so thoroughly that Holmes wasn't sure he'd ever have known it was there. The only sign of its presence was a chipped board that read _Two Doves_.

“I know this place,” said one of the other guys. “This is a molly shop.”

The leader turned to give him a significant look. “Exactly,” he said. “Trust me, it's all the Professor's men.” He looked around at the gang that they'd gathered. “Ready?” he asked. “Let's at 'em!”

The crowd rushed into the pub and Holmes melted back out of the way in order to lurk in an alleyway. That was the second time he'd heard them refer to Moriarty's men as sodomites. Was it merely insult-flinging, or was there more to it? Moriarty had shown his hand very clearly with his desires for Watson, after all. It was likely that word had got around the underworld about his proclivities, and his men had all been tarred with the same brush.

The brawl did not last very long. After a few minutes, several of the men who Holmes had followed there slipped out the door and took off running in all directions. Not long after, there was an almighty crash from inside the pub and another few men slipped away. The shouting and banging came to an end not long after that and then some men that Holmes didn't recognise started bringing out various injured and unconscious bodies. They dumped them in an alleyway off to one side and Holmes moved further back into the shadows to avoid being seen. He recognised one of the bodies carried out as the leader of the mob, but from the amount of blood that was leaking from the gash at his hairline, he wouldn't be leading any more mobs for a while, if ever.

Holmes made himself wait in the alley for another hour in order to give them time to clean up and calm down after the fracas. It was intensely frustrating to have to wait for so long when the next piece of the puzzle might be just across the road, but there was no use in going in while their suspicions were still up and getting himself thrown out immediately.

When he had eventually judged it to be safe, he wandered into the pub with the faint stagger of a man who has drunk more than his norm, but who was not yet near the stage of collapse. His entrance was marked by most of the men in the room – and it was only men in the room. There were none of the usual prostitutes that tended to flock to such places.

Holmes took himself straight to the bar as if he hadn't noticed the frowns his entrance had attracted.

“What do you want?” asked the barman without a hint of welcome.

“A pint of your best,” said Holmes, reaching into his pocket for some money and deliberately fumbling it.

The barman didn't move. “Plenty of places to get a pint around here,” he said.

Holmes looked up at him, and then around at the room as if suddenly realising the level of scrutiny he had attracted. “I heard this was a good place for,” he paused, pretending a nervous hesitation, “finding companionship.”

The barman relaxed slightly. “It's been known,” he allowed.

“Right,” said Holmes. “Well, thought I might have a drink and see if I could find myself a friend, you know?”

The barman clearly did know. He nodded and turned away to provide Holmes with a pint. “You might well find friends here, if you can keep your mouth shut about it,” he said.

Holmes managed a rueful grin. “Been keeping my mouth shut my whole life,” he said.

That seemed to be good enough for the barman. Holmes paid and took his pint to a seat by the fire, glancing around as he went. Curiosity would be allowable in a man looking for a casual liaison, and the barman's approval seemed to have been enough to arrest the suspicions of the others in the room.

He sat and drank for a while, pervading a nervous air in order to excuse his lack of conversation as shyness. There was a relaxed affection between several of the men in the room, hands resting on thighs and heads bent too close together, and Holmes had to swallow back the sudden longing to have Watson by his side.

Most of the conversation that he overheard was general enough, but he heard enough to know that this was definitely a gathering place for Moriarty's men, and that sodomy was accepted amongst them as if there were no moral, legal or societal mores against it. The information was briefly interesting, but as time passed and he gained no hints about Watson's whereabouts, it quickly became dull.

It was clear that there was going to be a shift of headquarters to outside the city and that Moriarty was intending it to coincide with his complete control over the London criminal underground, but the men around him were talking in general terms about the move, not acknowledging the location to each other even in passing. Holmes wasn't sure if that was because they didn't know, or because Moriarty had them well-trained when it came to keeping secrets.

Just as Holmes was starting to despair of ever learning anything of use, a door next to the bar which Holmes had identified as leading to the basement opened. The man who came through almost made Holmes betray himself with a reaction – he had been the one at Moriarty's house, who had been helping the man who Watson had bandaged.

The man went to the bar and leant on it, greeting the barman.

“Toby,” greeted the barman in reply. “How's Will doing?”

“Annoyed that he missed a good brawl,” said Toby with a grin. “If it had gone on much longer, I expect he'd have tried to make his way up here to help.”

“That sounds like Will,” said the barman with a grin. “He's still a bit far from being up for a fight, though.”

“He'll be on his feet a lot quicker than you'd think. He's itching for some action. I said I'd borrow some cards from you to give him something to do.”

The barman nodded, reaching under the bar to pull out a battered pack of cards. “No problem,” he said. “Are you boys going with the Professor tomorrow?”

Holmes felt his stomach clench. Was this the conversation he'd been waiting for?

“No, not for a few days,” replied Toby. “Will needs a couple of days before a train journey, I think. Besides, Professor wants to keep it low-key until he's got the doctor settled. Two invalids would attract a bit too much attention, I reckon.”

“Well, I'll be glad to have you here another few days, especially if Will's getting well enough to play cards,” said the barman. “I'll come down and win some of your money off you tomorrow.”

Toby laughed. “You can try,” he said, picking up the cards. “Thanks, Rob.” He went back through the basement door, leaving Holmes with a curious ringing noise in his head. Watson was being moved by train tomorrow, and would appear to be an invalid. That was more information than he could have hoped for. He ignored the part of his mind that was asking if he would just appear to be an invalid, or if his time as a prisoner, combined with the injuries that Moriarty had inflicted on him, had made him one in truth. Unanswerable questions were an unnecessary distraction.

He left the pub as soon as he could do so without raising suspicion and headed straight back to Baker Street. If Watson was travelling out of London by train, then he would pass through one of London's stations tomorrow, and could be observed along the way. Finding him had gone from an impossibility to a mere improbability.

 

****

  


****

 

Watson spent an extremely unpleasant afternoon and evening, unable to stop his mind from dwelling on all the hideous things that Moriarty had said. He ignored Murray when he brought in supper and didn't bother touching it. When it was taken away again an hour later, he found himself thinking of all the times that Holmes had left supper untouched, which naturally resulted in his mind turning to how Holmes might be faring at the moment. It was not a comfortable line of thought.

His suspicions that the noises coming from above his head belonged to a public house became more solidified as the evening wore on and they grew. Scrapping furniture, the constant hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter made his isolation and misery seem even more acute. He considered calling out and making himself known, but it was extremely unlikely that Moriarty would have imprisoned him somewhere where he could merely call for assistance. Whichever pub he was hidden beneath, it was almost certainly full of Moriarty's men, and any cries for attention would only result in drawing Murray into the room to quiet him.

He was half-heartedly flicking through one of the novels that were in the trunk when the noises above burst into a violent-sounding series of crashes and thumps, accompanied by the distinctive cries of a brawl. Footsteps in the corridor immediately rushed up the stairs, and a moment later another set followed them.

Watson got up and rushed to the door, resting his ear against it. This might be his chance, if the guards in the corridor had gone to help with the fight above. If he could just get out of this room and upstairs, he should be able to slip away in the confusion.

The door was locked, of course, but it had not been designed as a prison and Watson thought he might be able to break it down, given half a chance. There was an almighty crash from above just as he was stepping back to make his attempt, followed by angry shouting. It was now or never.

He kicked hard at the door, which shuddered in its frame but held. The noises from upstairs were calming down as he kicked out again, ignoring the angry shooting pains in his injured leg as he did so. Despite a loud cracking noise though, the door refused to give. A voice shouted something upstairs and there was the sound of a swift exodus, followed by quiet, and Watson realised he had missed his chance.

A moment later there steps came rushing down the stairs. Watson stepped away from the door, sinking down into a chair and feeling the full force of his failure sweeping through him. The door burst open and Murray stalked in, out of breath and showing signs of having recently been in a fight.

“What are you up to?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” said Watson wearily.

“Didn't sound like nothing,” said Murray, looking around. He spotted the minimal damage that Watson had done to the door and bent to examine it. “Stronger than you thought, right?” he said.

“I've no idea what you mean,” said Watson.

Murray snorted. “Keep it that way,” he said. “Either me or Patrick will be right outside all night, and we'd love an excuse to hurt you.”

He left without waiting for a response and a few minutes later, Watson heard the distinctive sound of some heavy piece of furniture being dragged in front of the door. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, defeat sinking his spirits into complete despair. What was he to do now? What would Holmes want him to do? Escape was clearly beyond him, which meant he had no choices about his future. Whatever happened to him now relied on Holmes's decisions.

He couldn't even begin to decide what Holmes might decide to do – in his place, Watson would find the two choices equally horrific. He couldn't even work out what he might tell Holmes to do if he had the chance to influence his decision. He liked to think he'd be strong enough to tell him to disregard Watson and keep himself safe, but the idea of having to submit to Moriarty's touch was like spiders crawling over his skin, bringing bile to his throat whenever he let himself think about it too much. How could he ask Holmes to just leave him to that, to be raped until Moriarty lost interest, when he'd no doubt be murdered? Could he leave Holmes in a similar situation?

The immediate and obvious answer to that was a firm no. Would Holmes have the same reaction? But then, on the other side, how would Watson be able to watch him live at Moriarty's beck-and-call, knowing that it was his fault that he was there?

The entire situation was too difficult to contemplate and in the end he wrenched his thoughts away and made himself focus on other things. He went through his memories, running through old cases, pinpointing the precise chain of clues and deductions that had led to a conclusion. It was something he did when he found it hard to sleep to keep his brain occupied, and usually led to him spending the next few days writing it all down. Tonight all it did was remind him of all the missed chances he'd had. All the times Holmes had stood just too close and brought his face in even closer to Watson's as he explained some aspect of the case, all the times they had sat together with a pipe at Baker Street afterwards, laughing with success, every time Holmes had given him an unmistakeable look of invitation and Watson had turned away, made his excuses and gone to bed alone.

The last night in particular stood out in his mind, when Holmes had finally gone far enough to make an invitation in words. Why on earth hadn't Watson said yes? Why hadn't he followed Holmes into his bedchamber and experienced that pleasure with him? Were his worries about crossing society and the law really so important? Whichever way this affair ended, it seemed likely that that had been his last chance to be with Holmes in the ways he had for so long desired. He had never held him in his arms, never felt his lips against his own, merely out of fear of what the world would think. That was a cowardice far greater than letting Holmes become Moriarty's servant in order to save himself from a hideous fate.

 

****

 

Watson slept very little that night and when Moriarty arrived the next morning, he raised his eyebrows at the sight of him.

“You look ghastly,” he said. “I do hope the country air does you some good.”

“Unless I am breathing it as a free man, it seems unlikely,” said Watson.

Murray brought in a breakfast that Watson merely picked at and Moriarty tutted. “I do hope you don't intend to waste away like a damsel in a cheap novel,” he said. “I had thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

“I'm sorry to be a disappointment,” said Watson, giving up all pretence of eating his toast and sitting back in his chair.

“Toby tells me that you were rather ill yesterday morning,” said Moriarty. “Surely it would be better for you to have something in your stomach today?”

“You're going to drug me again?” asked Watson.

“Of course,” said Moriarty. “How else would I move you? I can't risk you being conscious, you must see that.”

Watson scowled down at his plate and picked up the toast again. He was right, of course. Having something in his stomach would ameliorate the condition he found himself in when he woke up wherever he was being taken to. He managed another slice and a boiled egg before giving up again.

Moriarty gave him a pleased smile. “Very good,” he said. Watson scowled at him with every ounce of hatred that he felt.

Murray came in with the day's newspaper and the paper and pen for Watson to copy out the headline. Watson looked at it for a moment after picking up the pen, and then looked up at Moriarty.

“If I refuse,” he said, “Holmes will think I am dead, and won't walk into your clutches.”

“That's true,” said Moriarty. “And there would be no reason for me not to take you as and when I pleased – right now, for example.”

Watson kept his eyes on him for a long moment, not moving the pen towards the paper. Would it be worth it to give Holmes the chance to escape? He couldn't shake the deep-buried hope that Holmes might have some last-minute plan that would negate this entire situation however, and in the end he found himself tracing the words over the page and signing his name.

“A wise choice, but I can't pretend I'm not a little disappointed,” said Moriarty, giving the paper to Murray.

Murray took it away and came back a few moments later with both Toby and Patrick. Watson eyed them warily, especially the syringe that Toby was holding.

“We're not going to have a repeat of last time,” said Moriarty firmly. “Hold him down.”

Watson wasn't given a chance to react before Murray and Patrick were holding him firmly in his seat, Murray clamping his right arm firmly to the table. Watson struggled almost automatically against their grip, but there didn't seem much point in it. Toby advanced with the needle, stopping to pull up Watson's sleeve.

“Sorry about this, doctor,” he said.

Watson gritted his teeth. “I just hope, for the sake of the floors wherever we're headed, that you've lowered the dose a little.”

Toby looked a little uncertain at that, but it passed after a moment. “You'll be fine,” he said, and pressed the needle in.

“And when you wake up, you'll be in your new home,” added Moriarty as the drug was pushed into Watson's system. “And you won't have to be moved again.”

Watson looked up to glare at him as the edges of his vision began to darken. Toby pulled out the needle and Watson glanced back down, wondering why he hadn't yet completely blacked out, to see that at least a quarter of the liquid was still in the needle. Toby quickly hid it away, giving Watson a faintly pleading look.

“You'll be fine,” he repeated, and Watson let his eyes fall shut against the dizziness, then slumped in his seat.

He could feel the drug pulling at his consciousness, but it was by no means as strong as it had been before.

“Get him disguised,” commanded Moriarty, but dimly, as if from miles away. “We have a train to catch.”

Watson finally succumbed to the drug as hands tipped his head back.

 

****

 

Things were very confused once he awoke. He had enough mental capacity to keep his eyes shut and his position slumped, but beyond that he couldn't manage to focus. The world seemed to be moving as if he was on a boat in a storm and there were voices around him, roaring one moment and whispering the next. He felt sick, but knew that he couldn't let himself be physically ill, and there was something around his face, something that felt like a gorse bush. _Why is there a gorse bush on a boat?_ he wondered dimly, then a tide of confusion washed over him and he lost track of the thought.

When he next came to himself, he was being moved. There were hands under his shoulders and holding his legs, and he cracked his eyes open the tiniest amount to see that he was being lifted down from a carriage. The swaying earlier must have been the carriage, not a boat.

His mind felt much clearer, so much so that when a voice said, “Are you sure he's all right?” he was able to identify it as a porter who was standing by a large wheelchair.

“He's fine,” said Moriarty's smooth voice behind him. “Poor Uncle John, I fear this journey is going to tax his strength considerably, but it must be made. We can take him from here.”

There was the chink of coins exchanging hands, then the chair started to move. Watson kept his eyes resolutely shut, despite his desperation to see where they were, and instead concentrated on his other senses. The sound of large numbers of people combined with train engines made it an easy task to tell where they were. A train station. They must still be in London, but they would soon leave it. This would be his last chance for escape, but the drug was still so strongly in his system that he doubted he could stand up without assistance, let alone run away from his captors.

They were moving through the station now, every bump of the wheelchair sending a bolt of nausea through Watson. He gambled that no one was paying attention to him and opened his eyes slightly again, taking in the scene around him. It was Victoria Station, bustling as it always was on a weekday morning. Moriarty was striding ahead to the ticket desk while Murray walked by the side of the chair, which someone else – Patrick probably - was pushing. Watson had been draped with a blanket and could feel a large hat covering his head. The gorse bush revealed itself to be a false beard, which he really should have realised of from seeing so many of Holmes's disguises.

Moriarty was transporting him as an elderly invalid then, being taken to the country by his family. If there was anyone who knew him here, there was little possibility that they would recognise an elderly man in a wheelchair as Doctor Watson.

Watson cast his eye around, hoping to find someone he could give a signal to, but there were no policemen within sight. There were, however, a pair of ragged lads, hovering by the ticket office and eyeing the crowd with sharp eyes. Watson squinted at them, hoping to recognise some of Holmes's Irregulars, but his eyes were too blurry from the drugs to see clearly.

He would have to take a risk. Either they were scanning the crowd for potential pickpocket targets, or they had been placed there by Holmes to keep an eye out. The former seemed far more likely, but Watson couldn't help having hope. At this point, what did he have to lose?

The wheelchair was stopped not far from the ticket office as Moriarty procured their tickets, and Murray and Patrick fell into a quiet, muttering conversation. Watson took a risk and pulled his hand out from under the blanket, keeping it low at his side. He paused, hoping that he had not been seen, but there was no break in the conversation behind him. He fixed his eyes on the boys and waved his fingers, hoping to catch their attention.

For several minutes they failed to notice his desperate but tiny movements and he thought he was going to have to risk something more, then one lad turned to stare, nudging at his friend. Watson made a desperate gesture that he hoped conveyed 'don't give me away', then pulled his hand back under the blanket and pulled out his pocket watch. The boys' eyes riveted on it the moment they saw it and Watson hoped that they really were more than the usual street riff-raff. He dropped it as carefully as he could, hoping more than anything that it would go unnoticed.

By some miracle of luck, or of divine intervention, a near-by train let out a shrieking whistle at that precise moment, covering the sound of the watch as it fell. As far as Watson could tell, the boys were the only ones who noticed, but at that moment Moriarty turned away from the ticket office and Watson was obliged to shut his eyes again.

“Platform four,” he said. “The train leaves in twenty minutes, but I should like to be settled in a private compartment as soon as possible. We can't risk sharing with a stranger.”

“Right you are, Professor,” said Patrick, and a moment later the wheelchair was moving again. Watson kept himself slumped and his eyes firmly shut despite the temptation to try and see what had become of the boys. He found himself praying with every tiny part of himself that they were with Holmes, and that they would take the watch straight to him and report everything they had seen, and that Holmes would be able to find some way to use the information.

The train was already at the platform when they arrived, and there was a great deal of fuss to get both Watson and the wheelchair on board. As Murray and Patrick were carrying him up the stairs into the carriage, the movement and the sensation of being carried caused Watson's stomach to reconfirm its dislike of the drug they had given him. The sudden change of light as they entered the train made his eyelids flicker, despite his best attempts to keep them firmly closed.

“Here,” said Murray. “I think he's coming to.”

“Keep your voice down,” said Moriarty sharply. “We'll deal with it in the compartment.”

Watson suppressed a sigh. So much for remaining conscious.

Murray injected him again the moment they were settled in the compartment, and Watson allowed himself to open his eyes in order to glare at him. Murray just grinned back.

“Take your medicine like a good boy,” he said and within moments, everything had gone black again.

 

****

  


****

 

_General Boulanger Flees Paris_

_very sincerely yours,  
John Watson_ , said that morning's note.

Holmes looked at it for a long time, tracing his finger over the letters in a manner that he should usually have despised as overly sentimental. Right now he felt too tired to care about such things. He had been forced to wake up to yet another day without the prospect of a convivial breakfast with Watson, and it was beginning to wear away at him. He remembered back to the last time he'd seen Watson, the night before he'd been kidnapped. He'd not come to breakfast the next morning out of a fit of pique, because Watson had declined his invitation the night before. What had he been thinking not to take every chance to see Watson that he had? How could he have thought that whether or not they went to bed together mattered more than that they were together in the other hours of the day?

If he managed to pull both himself and Watson out of this fire, he thought fiercely to himself, then he wouldn't speak another word about it. If Watson would prefer to bow to society and live as if all that they felt for each other was friendship, then Holmes would acquiesce to his wishes without argument or reproach, and never mind that he didn't agree. He was unaccountably lucky to have Watson in his life at all; risking that over whether or not they indulged in carnal acts with each other seemed foolish in the extreme, and Holmes loathed foolish behaviour.

There was an urgent rap on the door, followed immediately by Wiggins, who entered the room without waiting for a call.

“Begging your pardon, Mister Holmes,” he said in a breathless voice.

Homes scowled at him. “You should know better than to enter without being asked,” he said.

“Oh, I do, sir,” said Wiggins, rushing across the room to him. “I do, but I knew you'd want this soon as I had it.” He held an object out and Holmes took it automatically, then almost dropped it when he realised what it was.

“This is Watson's pocket watch,” he said. “He takes great care of it. Where did you get this?” He grabbed Wiggins shoulder in a firm grip, as if he could get the information from him merely by contact.

“Charlie and Tim gave it to me,” said Wiggins. “They said an old gentleman dropped it in Victoria Station.”

“Tell me everything,” said Holmes, increasing the pressure on Wiggins's shoulders and resisting the temptation to shake him.

“I'm trying, I am!” protested Wiggins. “They was watching out for an invalid that might be the Doctor, like you said, and an old man, one in a wheelchair and looking that sick that they thought he was just going to die right there, he signalled them, all secret like, then dropped the watch.”

“He signalled them?” asked Holmes. It could easily have been Watson – disguising him as an old man in a wheelchair would be easy enough.

“That's what they said. Wiggled his fingers so the men he was with wouldn't see.”

“What men?” asked Holmes. “Where did they take him? Please tell me they saw what train he got on.”

“Three men,” reported Wiggins. “And course they did, sir. Charlie and Tim ain't slouches, they know what's what. They got on the Eastbourne train.”

Holmes let go of him, his brain already whirring. The Eastbourne train. Discounting the stops that were too near for Moriarty to have bothered with a train if that was where he'd been going, there were twenty-one stops on that line. It seemed unlikely that Moriarty would move his base of operations too far outside of London, so he could probably discount any of the stations beyond Ashurst, but that still left a great many possibilities, especially if you included the possibility of a change of trains. Still, it was a start, and more of one than he could have hoped for. Bless Watson for finding a way to provide him with a much-needed clue.

He pulled out his Bradshaw and stared at it, thinking hard and tracking all the connections.

“Do you need me, sir?” asked Wiggins after a few minutes, shifting his weight.

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Be silent and let me think.”

Wiggins did so and in a few more minutes Holmes had the key elements in a plan. “Right,” he said briskly, crossing to his desk. “I need you to send these telegrams for me immediately, but in total secrecy, do you understand? If you can pass them discreetly to another and have him send them instead, that would be best.”

“Hawkins next door will do it, if I give him a shilling,” said Wiggins. “He's steady.”

Holmes fished in his pocket for a shilling, and gave it to him with a hastily scrawled stack of telegram forms. “Instruct him not to go to the nearest telegram station,” he said. “And ensure he knows the importance of complete secrecy.”

“I will, sir,” said Wiggins. “I'll tell him we'll proper hurt him if he tattles to anyone.”

He disappeared in a flash and Holmes paused to take a deep breath, working through the consequences of this one last time to make sure that he wasn't being hasty. The last thing he wanted was to cost Watson another finger. It was his best chance to avoid a far worse fate, though, and he couldn't just sit by and do nothing. Watson would understand that – he was a man of action himself, of course.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes bellowed. “I need you!”

She came in a minute or two later, scowling at the manner of his summons. He ignored it. “I need you to tell people that I'm going abroad,” he said. “Very important. I need it spread around as quickly as possible that I'm leaving this afternoon for the Continent with no fixed date for return.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you actually leaving?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Holmes. “Either you shall have both your lodgers back by this evening, or you shall have neither.”

She put a hand to her chest. “Lord,” she said. “So sudden! What am I meant to do about the rooms?”

Holmes shrugged. “That is the least of my concerns,” he said. “I hope very much that Watson and I will continue renting them for a very long time yet, but I can guarantee nothing. You shall know by lunch time. For now, just let it be known about that I am quitting on you in an awful hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “And I'll be hoping that this evening sees both you and Doctor Watson here, and wanting supper.”

Holmes managed a smile for her. “Good woman,” he said, and she left.

There was nothing for him to do for the moment other than wait for replies to his telegrams. He looked around the room and thought about packing a bag, but couldn't bring himself to do it. It felt too much like giving in to Moriarty's machinations. Instead he pulled out his violin, running through scales as he forced his mind to run over and over the same details. This plan had to be perfect if he was to avoid bringing harm to Watson.

 

****

 

He finally got the reply he was looking for an hour later, from the Station Master at Upper Warlingham.

_MEN DESCRIBED ARRIVED ON 10.46 STOP MET BY PRIVATE CARRIAGE STOP WENT IN DIRECTION OF KING'S WOOD STOP_

Holmes immediately dived for his map of the area, pulling several other books off the shelf in his haste and then leaving them where they fell. There were several large farms and houses in that area, any one of which might belong to Moriarty. There was no hope for it; he was going to have to take a gamble and go down there himself.

He packed a bag, throwing any old rubbish in just to make it look full, then pulled on his coat and hat, calling for Mrs. Hudson again.

“What now?” she asked impatiently. “I've informed Mrs. Donovan across the road that you're going, and Sally from next-door. They both think it's shameful, you leaving with so little notice, and I'm sure Sally will tell the whole neighbourhood within the hour.”

“Excellent,” said Holmes, tucking the map in his coat's inside pocket. “Now you can tell them I've gone.”

“Gone!?” repeated Mrs. Hudson. “So soon?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “A carriage will be calling for me at 2. Be as good as to tell them that I've decided to leave London.”

“You are leaving, then?”

“I'm still not entirely sure on that point,” said Holmes. “If you haven't heard from me by this evening, then I think you can safely assume that neither I nor Doctor Watson will be coming back.”

“Oh, dear me,” she said weakly. “Will you at least be well, wherever you are?”

Holmes hesitated, then shook his head. “It seems very unlikely that we will be,” he said. There was no sense in lying to her. She'd only see straight through it. “I will be doing my best to prevent that, though.”

“Well, that's something,” she said. “Your best is a great deal more than the best of most men.”

Holmes wished he could believe that as firmly as she did, but all his best had been able to do over the last few days was worsen things considerably. He bid farewell to Mrs. Hudson and left Baker Street on foot, making no attempt to hide his departure. If Moriarty thought that he had decided to give Watson up and leave London to get away from his persecution, then he might relax his guard. Holmes would just have to hope that he waited his plans for Watson until this evening, when Holmes would have had a chance to find him and prevent it.

 

****

 

He allowed himself to remain in plain sight for ten or twenty minutes, then did everything he could to disappear, darting down alleyways and doubling back on his trail in an attempt to shake off anyone that might be following him. Once he was certain that he was unobserved, he went to one of his hideaways, abandoned the bag and changed into a disguise.

He travelled as quickly as he could to Victoria Station, keeping an eye out for any tails, but it seemed that he had managed to rid himself of Moriarty's spies for now, and then got the next train to Upper Warlingham. He could feel his blood beginning to flow now that he was finally on the chase, the familiar excitement of having his nose to the trail pulsing through him. He was so certain that he was going to be able to find Watson now that he could taste it. He had to remind himself sharply that he had thought that before, and been proved wrong. If he should fail again, the consequences didn't bear thinking about. Who knew what twisted revenge Moriarty might come up with in response?

He wiped his mind of those thoughts as the train pulled in to Upper Warlingham station. There was no sense in dwelling on such things, not when he still had a chance at making everything right again.

He entered the first public house he found once he was in Upper Warlingham, settling himself at the bar with a pint and ordering a late lunch. Once he had established himself as an out-of-work footman, lately come to stay with his sister and looking for a position, he started to quiz the barman over the nearby households.

“Anyone in the area that's newly come down from London and might be in need of additional servants?”

The barman thought for a moment. “Just the gentleman who's renting Frith House,” he said. “But I hear he has his own men, and a great deal of them as well.”

Frith House. Holmes conjured an image of the map in his mind, remembering the location of Frith House. A carriage heading to it from the station would have to go past King's Wood.

“Well, maybe he could use just one more,” he said. “Do you know his name?”

The barman shook his head. “Professor something,” he said. “Never heard a surname mentioned.”

An almost electric thrill ran through Holmes. That had to be him. Who else would it be?

“You don't want to go messing with that lot,” said an old man who was also sitting at the bar, settled in with a pint in a way that pointed towards him being a permanent fixture. “They're a bad lot. Best you keep away.”

“Don't go spreading rumours, Davey,” said the barman. “There's nothing solid to that talk. The Professor might be any sort of man – he's not been in the area long enough for us to tell.”

Davey made a grumbling noise. “When you've seen as much as I have,” he said, “you don't need to wait on solid. I can tell a bad lot when I see them.”

Holmes had stopped paying attention. Watson must be there – so close! Holmes stood up, ignoring his still-full beer. “Just remembered I promised my sister I'd be back,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”

He went straight to send a telegram to Lestrade. If Moriarty had a crew of men, then there was no use in Holmes going in alone, especially not when most of the villains there would need to be arrested. He waited just long enough for a reply, then left to go and investigate the situation and environs of Frith House. Nothing could be left to either chance or police incompetence. He would have a comprehensive plan ready for when Lestrade and his men arrived.

 

****

 

Lestrade brought several stout men with him and managed to follow Holmes's instructions for complete secrecy to the point of getting off at the station before Upper Warlingham and then travelling the rest of the way by carriage.

“This better be worth it,” he said once he finally met up with Holmes. “My superiors will not be pleased if you've got me here on a wild goose chase.”

“I promise you,” said Holmes. “They will be extremely pleased with today's work. You're about to capture the biggest villain in London and his closest associates.”

“Am I?” asked Lestrade, looking around the pleasant country village they were in.

“You are,” confirmed Holmes. “You are also going to rescue Doctor Watson from a most horrific fate.”

“Doctor Watson?!” exclaimed Lestrade. “You said he was in the country.”

“And so he is,” said Holmes. “I don't recall saying that he was here of his own volition. He has spent the last few days as the prisoner of Professor Moriarty.”

Lestrade looked completely shocked. “Days? But yesterday morning you-” He stopped. “Goodness me,” he said weakly as his mind started to catch up with the circumstances.

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “And so this operation must go extremely smoothly. Any hiccups and Watson will be in danger.”

Lestrade nodded. “You can rely on me and my men,” he said.

Holmes would just have to trust that was true, for Watson's sake.

 

****

 

By the time everything was in place, twilight was starting to fall. Holmes glared at the darkening sky and hoped fervently that the hours since Moriarty had discovered that Holmes had fled had not been too unpleasant for Watson. He had gambled that Moriarty would be occupied with other things for at least a few hours, but more time had passed than Holmes had expected, and the chance of Watson being assaulted grew with every minute that passed. He stared at Frith House from a near-by small copse, trying to will Moriarty to put it off a little longer.

“My men are all in position,” said Lestrade, coming over to where Holmes was hidden behind a tree.

Holmes nodded. “Allow me fifteen minutes,” he said, “and then come in.”

Lestrade frowned. “What are you going to be doing in that time? Surely it would be better for us to go in first – we are the professionals, after all.”

“Professionals at going in with heavy boots and loud voices,” said Holmes. “There is a high chance that such an approach will prompt one of them to hurt Watson in some way. I will go in first to ensure that that does not happen.”

Lestrade was clearly unhappy with that plan, but eventually nodded. “We come in after fifteen minutes,” he said. “Do try not to get yourself killed. I should hate to have to try and explain it to the Superintendent.”

Holmes merely snorted in response, then set off for the house. He kept to the growing shadows as much as he could, darting from tree to bush and hoping that the watch from the house was lax as the gang moved themselves in.

There was a veranda at the back of the house with several sets of doors leading out onto it. Holmes immediately went to the closest set, reaching into his pocket for his lockpicks.

“Oi!” said a voice behind him. “Who're you?”

Holmes turned to find that one of the other sets of doors had been opened, and a man had come out. He had one hand in his pocket, resting on what must have been a pistol, but he had not yet drawn it. That betrayed an element of uncertainty that Holmes knew he could take advantage of.

“Oh, thank god,” said Holmes, roughening his voice to match that of the criminal he was facing. “I thought I was going to have to break in.” He moved towards the open door.

“Hang about,” said the man. “Who are you?”

Holmes gave him a frustrated look. “I'm Cooper,” he said. The man continued to look blank. “With Toby's lot,” Holmes prompted. One thing that he had learnt last night at the pub was that Moriarty's organisation was large enough to be divided into several different groups, and that meant that very few of his men would know all the others.

The man frowned. “I thought you lot were staying in the City?” he said.

“We are,” said Holmes. “I'm just here to get the final details on a job.”

“Oh, right,” said the man and his hand left his pocket. He stepped back through the doorway, holding the doors open for Holmes. “The Professor is meeting with Colonel Moran, but he should be done in a bit. I heard him telling Murray that he was going to have supper with the Doctor, but you should be able to get your details before then.”

“Excellent,” said Holmes. They'd stepped into a small sitting room, and he turned away as if to examine it, picked up a lamp from a side table and spun around to brain the man with it.

The man crumpled without letting out a cry. Holmes paused for a minute to see if anyone had heard the noise of his fall, but the house remained silent. He quickly tied the man up with the curtain cord, gagged him as thoroughly as he could with his handkerchief and then dragged him behind a sofa and left him there. He'd be secure enough until the police arrived.

He put his ear to the door in order to make sure that there was no one on the other side, then crept out as soon as he was sure he would be unobserved. The room led out into what must have been the main hallway of the house, with several other doors leading off and a large flight of stairs leading upwards. He paused for a moment, trying to gauge just where Watson would be. He'd been upstairs in the previous house; would he be in a similar location here?

A door opened further down the hall and Holmes instantly fled back into the sitting room he had come from. He left the door ajar and watched through it as a man emerged. He paused and looked back into the room he'd come from as if listening to someone still in it.

“Right,” he said. “I'll check that our guest is ready for dinner, then let the Professor know that it's ready to be served.” A guest – that almost certainly had to be Watson, unless Moriarty had a whole house full of kidnap victims. Holmes wouldn't put it past him.

Whatever the person in the room said in reply to that caused the man to laugh crudely. “Well, that's up to the Professor, isn't it? If it was me, I'd make it so that I was the only thing he got to taste until he knew his place.”

Holmes's hands clenched into fists and he had to take a deep, silent breath. Both the man in the hall and whoever was in the room with him would pay for talking about Watson in such a disgusting manner.

The man finally let the door shut behind him and headed upstairs. Holmes waited until he was out-of-sight before following, keeping his ears sharp for any other movement in the house. The man's footsteps turned left at the top of the stairs, down a carpeted corridor. Holmes paused at the top of the stairs, hidden behind the wall, and peered around the corner to watch him. He turned right off the corridor, up another, smaller flight of stairs. Holmes waited where he was for long enough to let him get ahead, chaffing with impatience, then set off along the corridor.

He was not even halfway to the second flight when a door not far ahead of him opened. He swore to himself and darted into the nearest room, wondering why everyone was choosing now to roam the halls. Luckily the room he found himself in was empty and he crouched by the door, his eyes glued to the crack.

It was Moriarty and another man who stepped into the hallway – presumably the Moran character that the man who Holmes had assaulted had mentioned. Unlike the others of Moriarty's men that Holmes had seen so far, he appeared to be gentleman, and he walked with the same military bearing that Holmes had noticed in Watson the first time he'd met him.

“I'll go straight back to London, then,” he was saying.

“I don't want the momentum to slacken,” said Moriarty. “If we push forward firmly enough, we should be able to make great gains.”

“I know, I know,” said Moran in the voice of one who has heard this speech before. “First London, then Europe, then the world.”

“Precisely,” said Moriarty.

“I was just hoping to see your doctor before I went,” said Moran. “See what all the fuss is about.”

Moriarty laughed. “He's not really your type,” he said. “He's at least twenty years too old, and entirely the wrong sex.”

Moran shrugged. “I just want to see if I can spot what's got both you and Holmes all in a bother.”

“I'm not 'in a bother',” said Moriarty sharply, a shadow passing swiftly over his face.

“Right, right,” back-tracked Moran quickly. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“I should hope not,” said Moriarty. “Just keep focussed on your task.”

Moran nodded. “Find Holmes and kill him,” he said. “I shall take great pleasure in it.”

“I am sure that you will,” said Moriarty. He smiled in a cruel and entirely too self-satisfied way. “Just as I shall enjoy my activities this evening.”

Moran laughed as he started to walk away towards the stairs. “I'm sure that you will,” he said. “I'll look forward to hearing about it.”

“Find Holmes quickly and I'll get hold of one of the local farmers' daughters for you so that you can have first-hand experience,” said Moriarty.

Moran's face lit up. “There's incentive. I shall be back as soon as I can, then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” returned Moriarty. He went back into the room they'd come out of and Moran disappeared down the stairs.

“Come on, Owen,” he called once he was in the front hall. “You can take me back to the station now.”

A door opened. “Right you are, Colonel,” said someone else – presumably the man that had been joking about Watson a moment ago.

A minute later there was the slam of the front door, and Holmes hoped that Lestrade and his men would be able to pick the villains up before they got too far. It really would be most inconvenient to have a man like this Moran seemed to be seeking his end.

He left the room he had taken shelter in and continued along the corridor, his mind still fixed on getting to Watson at all costs. If the man he was following was with Watson when the police arrived, there was no telling what he might do in his desperation to secure his own liberty.

However, Moriarty was only gone for a brief moment. The door reopened and he emerged before Holmes had opportunity to take cover again. He froze in place, watching a look of complete surprise bloom over Moriarty's face and then be abruptly banished. It would seem that getting to Watson would have to be delayed for the moment.

“Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty said in a pleased voice. “You have decided to join us after all, how wonderful.”

“Hardly,” said Holmes, watching him as carefully as a cat watched a mousehole, waiting for any movement that might signal an attack. “I am here to witness your downfall.”

Moriarty looked amused. “Is that so?” he said. “I think it more likely that this will be your downfall.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out an ornate-looking knife. “I was intending to use this on Doctor Watson later, but I think seeing your blood might be even sweeter, if that is possible.”

Holmes felt a wave of anger wash through him and pushed it firmly aside. This was not the time to allow his emotions to rule him.

“Murray! Patrick!” shouted Moriarty. “Some assistance!”

Holmes quickly ran through the odds. In a fight between just the two of them, he was fairly confident that he could best Moriarty, even if he were armed and Holmes was not, but adding in extra bodies made the outcome more tenuous. If Holmes was lucky, one of those names would belong to the man who was currently tied up behind a sofa, but the other was likely to be the man on the floor above them, who must still be within hearing distance. Could Holmes hold the two of them off long enough for the police to arrive? It was difficult to tell precisely without knowing how skilled they were at fighting, and how the other man might be armed. It was possible that Lestrade would enter the house in time to do nothing more than arrest his murderer. If only he had Watson to back him up, he thought fervently.

There were no sounds of rushing feet from upstairs, however, and Moriarty was beginning to look puzzled. “Murray!” he called again. “Patrick!”

“It looks like it's just the two of us then,” said Holmes. He shifted his stance so that he would be better able to rush at Moriarty.

Moriarty frowned at him. “Is it, though?” he said. “Would you really have come out here on your own?” His eyes suddenly widened in realisation. “Ah. How long before the police arrive?”

“Too soon for you to do more than go quietly,” said Holmes.

Moriarty let out a short, dry laugh. “Well played,” he said. “Excuse me if I attempt to escape despite your claim.”

He turned and ran down the corridor and Holmes immediately gave chase.

He was almost upon him as he passed the staircase that led upstairs and heard a choked grunt and a thud. He glanced upwards as he ran past and then stopped dead in his tracks. Watson was at the top of the stairs, locked in struggle with the man who had gone up to check on him, both of them attempting to gain control of a knife.

Holmes glanced back at Moriarty just in time to see him disappear around a corner. He would just have to hope that the police would be able to apprehend him. There was no way he was leaving Watson again now that he had finally found him.

“Watson!” he called, and started up the stairs. Watson glanced up at his voice, eyes wide with surprise, and his distraction was enough to allow the man to gain the upper hand, landing a solid blow to Watson's solar plexus and pulling the knife firmly from his grip. Holmes climbed towards them as fast as he could, but it was a long way up the stairs, and only a very short distance between the knife and Watson.

 

****

  


****

 

Watson woke up feeling better than he had the previous morning but not by much. He lay still for a few minutes, hoping to settle his stomach before it emptied itself, staring up at a ceiling of cream plaster.

 _At least it's not another basement,_ he thought to himself, but it was hard to inspire much pleasure at being in a slightly better class of prison cell.

When he thought he might have control over his stomach, he allowed himself to sit up and look around the rest of the room. The first thing that arrested his attention was a window, out of which he could see a scrap of blue sky and a pair of wispy clouds. Seeing the outside world for the first time in days calmed something inside of him that he hadn't realised was agitated, and he sat still for a moment, enjoying the sight.

The rest of the room was nothing interesting. Plain plaster with the occasional simple picture on it and a collection of furniture that had not been treated with a great deal of respect. The window that Watson's eyes kept going back to had bars over it, but they were neither new nor particularly impressive-looking. If he had to guess, he would say that he was in what had once been a nursery. Someone had placed a bucket next to the bed – no doubt fore-warned by Toby – and he allowed himself to feel some relief that he hadn't had to use it.

Once he felt up to it, he got up and crossed over to the window, leaning on the bars as he looked out. There was an expanse of lawn below his window, ending in a forest. The house he was in must be a large country manor, no doubt miles from anyone who might be interested in helping Watson.

A door opened below him and he watched as Patrick came out onto the veranda, throwing his head back to let the sun fall on his face. He was followed by another man who Watson didn't recognise, who looked to be pointing various features of the grounds out to Patrick. They both looked very happy, clearly extremely pleased to be where they were, and Watson wondered what kind of accommodations they were used to back in London. This was probably a far cry from wherever they'd been brought up.

The door lock clicked and Watson looked away from the view as Murray came in.

“You're up,” he said in greeting. He glanced over at the bucket. “And you didn't make a mess for me, that's good.”

Watson leaned back against the window, crossing his arms and hoping he looked casual rather than unsteady. “What do you want?” he asked.

“The Professor just wanted to make sure you weren't feeling too bad,” said Murray. “He's kind-hearted like that, you see.” He looked Watson over. “You're a bit pale, but you'll do.”

Watson scowled at him. “I'm fine,” he said. “You may leave now.”

Murray tutted. “Wait a moment, there's more. The Professor also asked me to let you know that Mr. Holmes has declined his invite and left London, probably for good.” He paused and grinned. “Definitely for good if Colonel Moran has anything to do with it. He loves a good hunt.”

Watson felt the room waver and had to lean back harder to steady himself. Holmes had left London? The idea was so outlandish – Holmes and London were so closely intertwined in his mind as to be practically synonymous with each other – that it took him a moment to realise what that meant for him.

“Oh, now you're gone even paler,” said Murray. “Perhaps you should sit down for a bit. After all, you probably won't be able to sit for a while after tonight, when the Professor's done with you.” His grin grew truly malicious. “He's already planning the fun you two are going to have.”

Watson felt himself shudder and Murray laughed, then left, locking the door behind himself. Watson threw his head back, banging it on the bars as despair flooded through him. The brief pain of it merely even registered next to the whirl of emotions that charged through him. He staggered back over to the bed and sat heavily down, trying to sort through them all before he was overwhelmed.

The first feeling that he could identify was relief. Holmes wasn't going to walk into a trap because of him, wasn't going to sacrifice his liberty and his morals for Watson's sake. It was a bleak sort of relief though, almost numbing in its coldness. Underneath that was an empty sort of feeling, which he would like to believe was loss rather than abandonment. He could not begrudge Holmes making the decision that he had, not when both options had been so hideous.

Besides, he knew Holmes far better than Murray or Moriarty, well enough to know that he would not just leave London and Watson behind so easily. Wherever he was hidden away, he would be plotting ways to bring about Moriarty's downfall. Watson took a deep breath and focussed hard on that image, of Holmes free and well and plotting revenge. It was a much better thought than that of his own predicament.

He allowed himself a minute or two of anguish, letting his head drop as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep control of himself. It was a situation that he would not wish anyone else to ever be in, not even Moriarty himself, for all that there were several other hideous situations that he might wish him to be in. Facing a lifetime in jail, or the noose, for example.

Still, there was no reason not to face it with every inch of dignity and bravery that he could find. He took a deep, slow breath then raised his head, pushing aside the spiralling, black feeling that threatened to overcome him. He looked around the room again, searching for a way out. If he was to escape the fate Moriarty had planned for him, it was all on him now.

The room remained as blankly unhelpful as it had seemed at his first examination, but if Watson had learned anything from Holmes's methods, it was that the most important details weren't the ones you could learn with a quick glance. He stood up, ignoring the weakness that remained in his legs, and went over the room more thoroughly.

There were two doors into the room – the one that Murray had come through, which had led to a corridor, and another on the left side of the room that most likely led to another nursery room. Watson went over both carefully, hoping that doors designed to keep children from wandering wouldn't be proof against a determined adult.

Unfortunately, either Moriarty had the doors reinforced or the children who had once lived here were more devious than Watson would have expected, because there was no way he could force his way out of the room without causing the kind of racket that would attract Murray's attention. He looked at the window again, but even if the bars could be moved, it would still leave him three stories above the ground, and he'd never had Holmes's talent for scaling buildings.

He went over the rest of the room, searching the furniture in the faint hope of finding some tool that he could use to pry the doors open, but they were all most unsatisfactorily empty. He looked over the empty cupboard that has been built into the nook next to the fireplace and sighed when it proved to be nothing more than empty shelves.

He started to shut the doors again, and then paused. The back of the cupboard went back further than the wall it was against, and he realised that it had been built into the wall. He leaned forward and rapped his hands against the back of it. The sound that came back to him was of a thin layer of wooden planking. He looked at the construction of the cupboard and realised that it must have been installed in lieu of a wall, and that very likely there was a similar cupboard in the next room that this one was connected to. If he could just get through the planking at the back, which was not an insurmountable task given the flimsiness of the workmanship, he would be able to climb through into the next room.

He glanced outside at the sun, which was beginning to tip towards the horizon. He would have time before dinner, and Moriarty's arrival, if he worked quickly enough. He started to pull the shelves out.

 

****

 

It took longer than he'd hoped, but he was able to pull away the boards at the back of the cupboard one by one, revealing a black space beyond which must be the cupboard in the next room. He was just considering whether or not he would fit through the hole as it was, or if he would have to remove another plank, when he heard footsteps climbing the stairs and knew he was running out of time. He climbed into the cupboard, closing the doors behind himself to hide his escape route, then squeezed through the hole he had made, ignoring the way the wood scraped over his stomach, popping off a waistcoat button.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs just as he made it through. He pushed open the doors in front of him and climbed out into a room that looked rather similar to the one he had just been in, with one key exception. The door was ajar.

The footsteps stopped at the door of the other room and there was the jangle of keys. Watson moved as noiselessly as he could to the door and peered through the crack. Murray was standing in front of the door to what had been his prison, frowning at a bunch of keys as if trying to remember which was the correct one. There was a gun held thoughtlessly in his other hand and Watson reflected that he was probably expecting some resistance. It was a fair expectation – what man would allow himself to be taken off to be raped without an attempt at fighting back?

Any moment now, he would open the door, discover Watson gone, and raise the alarm. After that, it wouldn't be very long at all before Watson was apprehended – he wouldn't be able to escape even the house if it was filled with men looking for him, let alone get away across the countryside to somewhere safe. He would have to subdue Murray first, then make his escape and hope that he wasn't found until Watson was far away.

Murray found the right key and fitted it into the look, taking a firmer grip on the gun as he opened the door. “Doctor Watson,” he started to say as he stepped inside, then stopped abruptly when he found the room empty.

Watson was already moving, rushing down towards him with his eyes fixed on the gun. He caught Murray around the waist in a hard tackle that knocked them both to the ground. Murray made a surprised noise that was silenced as all the air was knocked out of him, and Watson immediately grabbed at the hand holding the gun and knocked it hard against the floor until he dropped it. He reached for it himself, but Murray had already recovered and kicked hard at him, then rolled them over, hands scrabbling at Watson's throat.

Watson settled for knocking the gun away with the back of his hand, then clutched at Murray's hands, trying to keep them from choking him. There were shouts from the floor below which they both ignored, intent as they were on destroying each other.

“You don't get me that easily,” growled Murray. Watson ignored him – there was no sense in wasting precious breath on words. Instead, he brought his knee up sharply, catching Murray between the legs. Murray let out a pained noise and let go, rolling away.

Watson immediately scrambled to his feet, looking for the gun, but Murray was only incapacitated for an instant and then he was on his feet as well, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a knife. Watson suppressed a sigh. Of course it was too much to hope that the gun had been his only weapon.

“I'm going to slice you up,” threatened Murray. “I ain't going to kill you though – just get the blood flowing for the Professor. He likes a bit of blood, you know. Gets him all excited.” He grinned with maliciousness and Watson shifted his weight, preparing himself. He wasn't going to let this evil thug get the better of him, not when he finally had a chance to get his freedom back. The stairs were right behind him, just waiting for him to be able to escape down them and find his way out of this dreadful place.

Murray rushed at him and Watson ducked to one side, but not quick enough. The knife grazed over his arm, slicing his shirt and leaving a trail of red behind it. He grabbed for the knife hilt to prevent another strike at him, but Murray's grip was stronger than he'd hoped, and he found himself locked in a struggle over it, both of them straining to gain control of the weapon.

There were running steps on the floor below them and Watson prayed fervently that they wouldn't be interrupted. This was likely to be his only chance at escape – if he were recaptured, it was certain that Moriarty would make sure he'd never get free again.

“Watson!” called out a completely unexpected voice, and it was enough to distract his attention as he glanced down the stairs to see Holmes staring up at him. His strength wavered as a flood of relief at seeing Holmes's dear and familiar face surged over him.

Murray took his chance instantly, driving his fist hard into Watson's stomach and knocking the air from his lungs, then wrenching the knife away. Holmes's footsteps clattered up the stairs towards them but Watson forced himself not to make the same mistake twice and kept his eyes on Murray. With luck, there would be plenty of time to enjoy the sight of Holmes once Murray was bested.

Murray thrust at him with the knife and Watson brought his arm up to guard his face, catching the blade on his forearm. It sliced almost to the bone, making him hiss, then Holmes made it to the top of the stairs and Murray was knocked away from him with a wild blow.

“Watson!” exclaimed Holmes again. “Are you hurt?”

The blow had rendered Murray unconscious and Watson finally let himself take in the very welcome sight of Holmes. He looked worn out and pale, and Watson reflected that the last few days had probably been just as trying for him as they had been for Watson. The look on his face was more than enough to distract Watson from that, though. He looked overjoyed, lit up from within with pleasure as he looked Watson over, and the expression lit a feeling within Watson that reminded him of the promise he'd made to himself last night.

“I am more than fine,” he said, stepping close to Holmes and grasping his arm. “It is exceptionally good to see you, my dear fellow.”

“Likewise,” said Holmes, reaching for his shoulders in return, so that they were caught together in what almost might have been an embrace. Watson was considering moving forward and turning it properly into one, and showing Holmes just how much pleased he was to see him again when Holmes abruptly let go of Watson and moved back slightly, his eyes falling to Watson's hand as it clutched at him.

“Your finger-,” he started, then stopped. “Ah, a decoy,” he murmured.

“Moriarty wanted to keep me in one piece,” said Watson. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off Holmes's face, tracing over the familiar lines of it as if it had been far longer than five days since he had last seen him. “It was some other poor fellow who lost a finger.”

“I am most exceedingly glad,” said Holmes, clearly uninterested in some unknown person's pain. He glanced up at Watson's face again with sharp eyes. “He didn't harm you in any other way?” he asked.

Watson shook his head, knowing what the question really was. “Nothing more than cuts, and a slight heavy-handedness with the drugs,” he said.

Holmes relaxed and smiled, gripping tightly at Watson's arm. “Thank God.”

Watson was caught by the look in his eyes and for a long moment they just looked at each other, hands holding on slightly too tightly. Watson wanted, more than anything, to move in closer and kiss Holmes, but somehow he found himself faltering now that the moment was here. It seemed such a leap into the unknown. _But I would be leaping with Holmes,_ he thought fiercely. Whatever happened after, he knew it would be both of them in it together.

Just as he was poised to move, there was a crash and several thumps from far below them, and the distinctive sound of men shouting, “Police!”

“Ah, right on time,” said Holmes, moving away from Watson in a way that was no doubt prudent, but which caused Watson no small amount of frustration. He wondered if this was how Holmes had felt every time he avoided his advances and resolved never to do such a thing again.

Lestrade found them not long after that, at about the time that Murray was coming to. He snapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists and let one of his men take him away, then shook Watson's hand very firmly.

“Good to see you, Doctor,” he said. “I'm glad to see you're in one piece.”

“I'm well enough,” Watson reassured him. He wondered just how much Holmes had told him about Moriarty's designs, then decided that it was probably extremely little. Holmes never shared more than he had to. “Thank you so much for coming to my assistance.”

Holmes snorted. “It didn't look much like you needed assistance when I arrived,” he said. “You had escape well in hand.”

“I was struggling with a man who had a knife while I was weaponless,” Watson pointed out.

Holmes shrugged. “You've won out against worse odds,” he said. His unbreakable confidence that Watson would have beaten Murray rendered Watson silent, not sure whether he should be flattered or exasperated.

“At any rate,” put in Lestrade, covering the pause, “I can hardly accept your thanks for just doing my job, especially when it was all Mr. Holmes's work. I only found out that you were in jeopardy a few hours ago.”

Watson blinked at that and glanced at Holmes. “You didn't inform the police earlier than today?”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Moriarty was very insistent on the harm he would do to you if I did.” He turned his gaze on Lestrade. “Please tell me your men apprehended him. He fled only a couple of minutes before they entered the house – he must have blundered straight into them once he was outside.”

Lestrade shrugged. “I've not had any reports of his capture yet,” he said. “Still, hidden away up here, it's possible that my men just haven't been able to find me to tell me.”

“Let us go down, then,” said Watson, and started down the stairs without waiting the other two. Being able to move around a building according to his own will was a heady feeling, and he found his mouth twitching into a small smile at the thought that he would be able to go outside and look up at the sky once they were on the ground floor.

Both Holmes and Lestrade followed him out of the front door. Watson looked up at the sky, which was now nearly black with night and let his smile widen.

“Inspector!” called one of Lestrade's men, and Lestrade stepped away to speak with him.

“You have missed being outdoors,” Holmes observed.

Watson turned to smile at him instead of at the sky. He had missed both sights, after all. “The last time I spent so long confined to the indoors was when I was shot,” he said. “I did not enjoy it then, either.”

Holmes's eyes were fixed on Watson with a similar expression to that that Watson had just turned to the sky. “There are sights that need to be enjoyed every day,” he agreed.

The statement was so close to what Watson had just thought that for a moment he wondered if Holmes was employing his uncanny ability to read a man's mind again. The look in his eyes, however, was such that Watson doubted he was in a fit state to deduce. A warmth spread throughout his chest at the sight, driving away the cold of the encroaching night.

“As much as I'm enjoying it,” he said, “I should very much like to be back at Baker Street.”

Holmes nodded. “As soon as it can be arranged,” he promised. His eyes dropped to Watson's forearm. “You should let someone look at that,” he said.

Watson glanced down at where the cut Murray had inflicted on him had soaked blood into his shirt. He'd almost forgotten about it in the rush of regaining his liberty. “It will be fine for now,” he said. “It's not as bad as it looks.”

Holmes made a disbelieving noise. “And if it were on my arm?” he asked.

Watson sighed. He had a point – if Holmes had been injured, he would have insisted on tending to it already. “Oh, very well,” he capitulated. “Do you have a handkerchief I can borrow? Moriarty took mine.”

“It is at Baker Street,” said Holmes, reaching into a pocket for his own. “I doubt it will ever be usable again, though.”

Watson reached to take the handkerchief from him, but Holmes stopped him. “Allow me,” he said.

He bound up Watson's arm with quick, efficient movements, his hands only touching as much as was necessary, but he was standing close enough that Watson could feel the warmth of his body through his clothing. It was a reassuring warmth, a reminder of all the other times they had stood too closely together at the end of a long case.

Lestrade came back over to them, shaking his head. “A bad business,” he said. “One of my men was assaulted.”

Holmes tensed, letting go of Watson's arm. “Moriarty got away,” he said.

Lestrade nodded unhappily. “Willis had him, then another fellow turned up and assaulted him, and they both got away. Willis says the man that hit him was the one who left the house by carriage just before it all began – I sent men to chase him and they got the driver, but he got away. Seems he came back for his boss.”

Holmes uttered an exclamation of disgust. “Moran,” he growled.

Watson felt a cold sensation run through him, making him shudder. That Moriarty had escaped was more disturbing than he would have expected. He remembered the way he had stared at him after Murray had cut him, full of dark lust, and felt distinctly unsafe for a moment.

“Colonel Moran,” he added. “Murray referred to him as a hunter. I don't think we can blame your men for letting him slip through.”

“Always so generous,” said Holmes with exasperation. “Letting Moriarty go free is an error that could cause all London, or even the whole of Europe grievous harm, not even mentioning his particular fixation on you and I. It was badly done.”

“All right, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, looking annoyed. “There's no need for that. My boys did the best they could, but it wasn't as if we had a whole lot of preparation time.”

“Excuses,” said Holmes dismissively, and Watson could see he was about to go into one of his rants. He couldn't blame him – having both Moriarty and Moran still out there was a hard blow, but there was a limit to what Lestrade should have to put up with on a day when he had helped rescue Watson from a dire fate.

He put his hand on Holmes's arm. “Leave it, Holmes,” he said. “Let's just go home for now. Moriarty can wait for later.”

Holmes clenched his jaw on whatever his next words had been going to be, then nodded curtly. “Fine,” he said. “Lestrade, can you at least provide us with a ride to the station?”

“I'll get one of my men to drive you,” said Lestrade, and left to arrange it.

Watson looked around at the darkening countryside again. “Where are we, anyway?” he asked. “How far is London?” It was rather disorientating to realise just how little idea he had of where they were. He couldn't have even said which county they were in, although it couldn't be that far from London if Holmes was prepared to return there that night.

“Upper Warlingham,” said Holmes. “London is close enough – we should be home in time for Mrs. Hudson to fuss over you and fetch us tea.”

“I rather think I'd prefer something stronger,” said Watson.

Holmes smiled at him. “Then we shall have brandy instead,” he said. “Whatever you want, you shall have.”

There was one thing that Watson was very certain he wanted, but at that moment Lestrade came back over to inform them that he had a carriage being made ready for them, and Watson was forced to leave detailing precisely what it was he wanted from Holmes until later.

 

****

 

Mrs. Hudson did fuss over Watson when they arrived back at Baker Street. She came perilously close to embracing him with delight, although she managed to restrain herself to merely gripping his arm at the last moment.

“Oh, it's so good to see you safely home, Doctor,” she gushed. “We've been so worried.” She turned to Holmes. “It's good to see you both,” she added. “I was not looking forward to having to seek out new tenants.”

“New tenants?” repeated Watson, glancing at Holmes as well.

He shrugged negligently. “When I left here earlier, I was not entirely sure where you were,” he said. “If I was unable to find you, it was unlikely either of us would ever be back here, and I felt it only fair to warn Mrs. Hudson of the possibility.”

The truth of that made Watson shiver for a moment before he reminded himself that they had managed to avoid the fate Moriarty had planned for them and would be able to stay on together at Baker Street for a great many years, God willing.

“Can I bring you some tea?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “Or perhaps some food? I've some cold meat, it wouldn't take two minutes to make up some sandwiches.”

Watson had done little more than pick at his food for the last day or so, and was beginning to feel the effects now that the weight of worry had been lifted from his mind. “Some sandwiches would be very welcome,” he said. He looked at Holmes – something he couldn't seem to stop doing, although this time, at least, he had the excuse of attempting to appraise his diet for the last few days from his appearance. “I dare say you haven't been eating much over the last few days.”

Holmes looked exasperated. “I ate as much as I needed to,” he said.

“By which he means almost nothing,” said Mrs. Hudson to Watson. “I shall bring him something as well.”

She bustled off before Watson could thank her and he smiled after her, so pleased to be back in his home again.

“I wonder how long her relief will last before she starts to declare us the worst tenants that a landlady ever suffered from again,” said Holmes, sounding amused.

“That rather depends on you, my dear fellow,” said Watson. “I'm not the one who causes her distress. The last time she said that, it was because you'd filled our sitting room with smoke and destroyed the surface of the table you were working on.”

“You'd think she'd be used to the occasional moment of excitement by now,” said Holmes. “And it's not as if I didn't replace the table. Now, sit yourself down and allow me to inspect that wound of yours properly now that we are in better circumstances.”

The handkerchief on Watson's arm was damp with blood and the pain of the cut was beginning to wear rather on his nerves, so he sat down with little more than a quiet sigh at Holmes's fussing.

Holmes fetched Watson's medical bag, sorting through it to find the relevant articles.

“I am capable of fixing myself up,” Watson commented.

“Why on earth should you need to, while I am here?” asked Holmes distractedly, pulling out Watson's suturing equipment.

“Because I am a doctor?” suggested Watson, carefully removing the handkerchief from his arm and wincing when he saw the wound underneath. It was deep, but clean. A handful of stitches and some form of pain relief should be all he needed.

“I may be an amateur,” returned Holmes, “but I rather think I have done this often enough now to be regarded as a practised one.” He took Watson's wrist with gentle hands and inspected the cut with a faint frown.

“Just a clean up and a couple of stitches,” said Watson.

“Yes,” agreed Holmes, and proceeded to do just that. He worked largely in silence, a look of intense concentration on his face that Watson studied with interest, wondering what other activities involving Watson's body might inspire it. Those thoughts were only furthered by the way Holmes's hands touched his skin with a gentle competence that Watson could easily imagine in other contexts, and on other parts of his body. He had to take a deep breath to calm his thoughts, one that made Holmes glance up at his face with a frown.

“Am I hurting you unduly?” he asked.

“It's fine,” Watson reassured him, forcing his thoughts to settle. There would be plenty of time to discover if his fantasies held up to reality now that he was back where he belonged. After all, Mrs. Hudson was due back soon and any attempt to discuss the issue would have to wait until after that, at least.

Mrs. Hudson brought them up rather a heap of sandwiches just as Holmes was dressing the injury, then left them in peace with strict instructions to call for her if they needed anything. Watson's hypothesis about Holmes's eating habits whilst he had been gone were rather borne out by the way he tucked into the plate, eating almost as much as Watson did.

When he had finally sat back, he looked Watson over. “I suppose your meals have been rather rudimentary,” he said.

“On the contrary,” said Watson, thinking of the spreads that Moriarty had had put out for him. “It was the dinner conversation that was lacking. Moriarty insisted that I eat with him whenever possible. It had a rather discommodious effect on my appetite.”

“That must have been excruciating,” said Holmes, a black look crossing his face. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I must apologise that my business put you in such an unpleasant situation, Doctor. I would have given anything to prevent it.”

Watson felt surprise wash through him. That Holmes should feel in any way responsible for what happened, let alone so much so that he felt he had to apologise, was ridiculous. “Our business,” he corrected firmly, once he had had a chance to gather his thoughts. “I choose to assist you, knowing what the dangers are.”

Holmes's expression did not change. “I doubt you foresaw that you might be kidnapped by someone as evil as Moriarty, or that he might want such things from you when he did.”

“I have always known that it is not a safe occupation,” said Watson. “I would not have it any other way. Joining the Army wasn't safe either, and I have never blamed the High Command for the injuries I received whilst serving. I would never blame you for the actions of criminals.”

Holmes nodded as if to himself, and stared at the table for a few moments with a faint frown on his face. Watson occupied himself with finishing off the last of the sandwiches and wondering how he would be able to eradicate Holmes's obvious guilt.

“Do you want that brandy now?” Holmes asked once Watson had finished, standing up.

“I should like nothing more,” said Watson, leaving the table and settling into his armchair as Holmes poured their drinks. Once Holmes had settled as well, Watson let out a contented sigh. “This is what I most missed,” he confessed. “All I wanted was to be able to sit with you by the fire, and have a drink and hear you explain all the clever things you'd done whilst I was away.”

Holmes laughed self-deprecatingly. “I'm afraid I didn't manage much that was clever,” he said. “But I must confess to having missed this as well.”

Watson smiled at him, then let his eyes travel around the room, taking in the familiar sights of their shared clutter. There was a nasty stain that he could not remember seeing before on one of the walls. “What happened there?” he asked, gesturing with his glass.

Holmes glanced over, then his gaze returned to Watson's face. “A rather nice bottle of Talisker broke on it,” he said.

Watson felt his eyebrows raise. “That sounds like an awful waste of good whisky,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Holmes. “I shall have to buy a replacement tomorrow.”

“I'll accompany you,” said Watson, thinking of how nice it would be to stroll through the streets of London arm-in-arm with his friend again. It still felt a little unreal to think that he was free and could go where he wanted, when he wanted. If Holmes had not found him, it was very likely that he would still be locked up in that house, no doubt being subjected to a great many unpleasant things at this very moment.

“How did you find me?” he asked. “That, at least, must have been clever – I can't believe you stumbled across Moriarty's house by chance.”

“That was down to you,” said Holmes. “I've done an awful lot of running about in the last few days, but I accomplished almost nothing until you showed me the way.”

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out Watson's watch.

“Oh!” exclaimed Watson, taking it from him. “So those were your boys, and not just pickpockets.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “They were able to tell me which train you were put on and what disguise you were in, and after that it was easy. I sent a telegram to all the stations on that line, and was lucky enough that Moriarty didn't change your disguise on the train and that you alighted at a small station, where the station master couldn't have missed you.”

Watson turned the watch over, inspecting it for damage, then slid it into his pocket. “You can claim that it was easy and all down to luck as much as you want, my dear Holmes. I will continue to be extremely grateful to you.”

“And I shall continue to count the whole affair as a black mark on my record,” said Holmes. “I suspect neither of us will be able to change the other's view on this subject.”

Watson laughed. “No,” he agreed. “I will persist in believing you to be the best and the wisest man whom I have known, and you will continue to think far too poorly of yourself.”

Holmes looked touched at Watson's words, as Watson had known he would be, but waved them away with his glass. “One thing we can both agree on,” he said. “While Moriarty walks free, we are both still in danger.” He sat forward in his chair and fixed Watson with an intense look. “I swear to you, Watson, I will bring him down if it is the last thing I do.”

Watson found himself feeling uneasy at the fervent tone in his voice. “Try not to make it the last thing,” he said. “I'd rather like to be able to spend a great many more years sitting by the fire with you.”

“I have no intention of letting him be my end,” said Holmes, sitting back. “But I cannot let Moriarty keep his freedom, not if he is going to use it as he has been. I will find him and see that he pays for what he has done.”

“We both will,” said Watson. “I think I'm entitled to want him finished as much as you are after the last few days.” He looked down at his brandy, swirling it in the glass as he thought. “He said he had several boltholes throughout the city,” he remembered. “Like you do. He's probably in one of them right now.”

“It seems unlikely that he would leave London,” Holmes agreed. “And if he stays here, sooner or later I will hear word of him.”

“If only I knew where the pub was,” mused Watson. “He might be there right now.”

Holmes froze. “What pub?” he asked.

“I was kept in a pub for two nights,” said Watson. “Or, well, I strongly suspect it was a pub. I was in a basement and above me I could hear men talking and moving about. At one point there was a brawl – I know the sounds of a bar fight when I hear them. It must have been a pub. Entirely filled with his men, of course. Good God, Holmes, what is the matter?”

Holmes had gone extremely pale. “This brawl – it was last night? Around nine?”

“That's right,” said Watson with surprise.

For a moment Holmes looked so ill that Watson thought he might actually be sick. “I was there,” he said. “I was outside during the brawl, then came inside an hour or so later. You were right below me and I had no idea.”

Watson felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He thought of his despair last night, how he had spent hours thinking about all the lost chances with Holmes, and all along, he had been in the same building. “I thought about calling out,” he remembered. “But I thought there would be no one to hear who would care.”

Holmes swore rather colourfully. “I should have seen it,” he said. “Of course you were there, with your patient. How many quiet places like that can he have?”

“My patient,” repeated Watson. “You know about Will?”

Holmes wasn't listening. “I have done nothing but let opportunities slip through my fingers these last few days. Having you in danger made me unforgivably stupid.”

His fingers had clenched on his glass and for a moment Watson was afraid that he would pitch it into the fire. “Calm down, Holmes,” he said. “It has all ended well, after all, and there really was no way you could have known. Now, which pub was it? Does Moriarty know you know where it is? He might have gone back there.”

Holmes shook his head. “It's called the Two Doves. Inspector Gregson raided it tonight at the same time as Lestrade and I were in Upper Warlingham.”

“Ah,” said Watson. He thought for a moment about Toby and Will who must have still been in the basement room. No doubt they were in custody now. He felt bad about that and then wondered why. They had both been criminals, after all. Moriarty himself had told him that Toby had murdered three men and God only knew what other crimes they had had a hand in. Just because they had shown him the only kindness he had seen during his imprisonment and because he had felt a sympathy for their relationship did not mean that they didn't deserve to be handled by the justice system.

“I do hope they handle my patient with care,” he said.

Holmes's stern demeanour cracked into amusement. “Ah, I have missed you, my dear Watson,” he said. “Who else would find it in his heart to care about a criminal they were forced to patch up?”

“I don't like seeing my work undone, that is all,” protested Watson.

“No,” disagreed Holmes, smiling at him with a soft look. “It is because you are one of the kindest men on the planet – the very kindest, if I was forced to guess. I find it hard to believe that anyone else could have a heart to match yours.”

Watson felt himself flush at the words and ducked his head to hide his expression.

“I am sorry,” said Holmes after a moment. “I do not mean to make you uncomfortable.” He cleared his throat and continued with more awkwardness than Watson thought he had ever heard in his voice. “I wish to reassure you, Watson, that you need not worry about any further propositions that you do not want to hear. I would rather keep your friendship than harass you for things that you do not wish to give me.”

This speech left Watson even more astounded than Holmes's previous one. He looked up to stare at Holmes, but Holmes was concentrating very hard on the liquid in his glass and would not meet Watson's eyes at all. Watson thought again of the last evening that they had spent together like this and of his rejection of Holmes's offer, but this time he thought about it from the position of Holmes. He had no doubt had as much time to think things over as Watson had, and to regret the exchange just as much as Watson had but from another angle.

“I see,” said Watson carefully, setting down his glass. This, then, was either his chance to hold true to the promises he had made himself whilst imprisoned, or to sweep the whole business under the carpet in order to stick to the respectable life that he had thought he wanted before the ordeal began.

He stood up. “I believe I shall retire,” he said.

Holmes looked up from his glass in order to give him a brief smile. “Good night then, my dear fellow,” he said.

Watson took a deep breath and crossed to his chair. He took one of his hands, ignoring the startled look Holmes gave him, and said, “We could retire together?”

His delivery was more questioning than suggestive and he wished he had some of Holmes's control over his vocal delivery. Holmes seemed to freeze in place, staring up at Watson with his mouth half-open. As the silence grew, Watson could feel his nerve begin to shatter. Propositioning a man such as Holmes was hard enough without having him refuse to give an immediate answer.

“I trust I am still allowed to make propositions,” he said when it was beginning to look as if they would be caught in that moment forever.

That statement finally broke Holmes out of his petrified state. He surged upwards, casting his glass aside as he took both of Watson's hands in a firm grip of his own. “Indeed you are,” he said. “Whenever and wherever you want.”

Then he bent and caught Watson's lips in a kiss, and all thought of a retort to the strength that perhaps it would be best to avoid such propositions around Scotland Yard was wiped clean from Watson's mind. Holmes gathered him into his arms as he kissed him, over-whelming his senses as Watson melted against him, holding him as closely as he could. By the time he had pulled away, Watson's head was spinning in a manner that he would most definitely like to experience as often as possible.

“In that case,” he managed, sounding more breathless than he'd have liked, “perhaps you would care to come up to my room so that I can proposition you there?”

Holmes beamed at him, took his hands again and started to walk him towards the stairs. “That is an excellent suggestion, my dear Watson,” he said.

Watson smiled back at him and followed his lead, as he always did.


End file.
